


Decide Who You Are

by Nikkusama



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Suicidal Character, Case Fic, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, M/M, Murder, Non-Deviant Connor, Post Bad ending, Post-Canon, Rated For Violence, Rating will go up eventually ;), Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, but not the worst ending :), rated for suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23069356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikkusama/pseuds/Nikkusama
Summary: A moment of inaction ends Connor’s short life, dooming the revolution and leaving Hank a broken man. Hank returns to the DPD in mourning to discover that his ordeal isn't over; in a cruel twist of fate he must work with someone who not onlylookslike Connor, but who also was the one responsible for killing him. With the rise of a new threat in the wake of the Deviancy Crisis, a core question surfaces: what does it mean to be alive?Everything comes down to choices. Choices that matter.Or: Connor-60 kills Connor at Cyberlife tower and is a far from ideal replacement. A bit of a character exploration (of Hank, and the differences between Connor-51 and Connor-60), with a healthy smattering of angst, hurt/comfort and eventual romance/sex. There's also an attempt at a plot in here, in the form of a background case.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor, Hank Anderson/CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60
Comments: 41
Kudos: 48





	1. Imposter

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I figured I’d been lurking long enough; here’s my contribution! Naturally, it is hot mess (and kinda includes a rare-pair? This isn’t fanon-60, but a non-deviant Connor in the same way that the game reduces software instability/ deviancy whenever Connor dies, so idk if it counts), but I hope it is entertaining.
> 
> For this story, the following events are canon  
> Kara: After running away from Todd, she and Alice stayed at the motel. They evaded Connor when he pursued them across the highway. Current whereabouts: unknown.
> 
> Markus/ Jericho: he was peaceful to a fault (didn’t attack Leo, didn’t shoot the fleeing newsreader, and led a peaceful protest against the camps,) but chose to sacrifice himself when cornered in the barricade. Simon was injured at Stratford tower (the SWAT arrived…) and was found by Connor on the roof. 
> 
> Connor: All ‘nice’ options with Hank; bought him a drink, saved him from falling at the Urban Farms, didn’t shoot the Tracis or Chloe etc., and deviated at Jericho. He and Hank had the highest possible relationship, and he didn't die once.

Hank knew some of the choices he made throughout his life had been fucking terrible. Hell, he was self-aware enough to acknowledge that he was still making some pretty poor ones. But he’d always tried to do the right thing; be a good dad, be a loving husband, and lately be a reliable partner. Choices that mattered.

But he found it hard to feel confident in his most recent decision when he was looking down the barrel of a gun. He really hadn’t thought that this was how his night would end up, held hostage by someone who wore Connor’s face. His cheek still ached from where he’d been struck; he’d never really considered that Connor had the potential for petty cruelty.

The other Connor placed his hand on a sleek white panel and the door opened with a metallic swoosh.

“Through there.”

Hank didn’t move out of sheer contrariness. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be, Hank.”

“Fucking android- this won’t work, you know. Connor’s too smart for this bullshit.”

The other Connor smirked at him, every bit the self-satisfied bastard he was programmed to be.

“I disagree. Now, go.”

Connor slid the gun out from the back of his pants and gestured with it. Hank felt a muscle jump in his bruised cheek, pulling his lips into a sneer, anger simmering low in his gut as he reluctantly headed into the warehouse beyond.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been held at gunpoint. As a beat cop it happened more often than he could count, some dumbass kid with a bad attitude and something to prove waving a piece around like a toy. It came with the territory heading up the Red-Ice task force, standing in some dingy squat trying to stop some opportunistic tweaker from making a bad situation worse. In Homicide, fuck, there were no shortage of desperate people trying to create a way out. As frequent an occurrence as it had been in his life, he couldn’t say he cared for it. It made him drag his feet, deliberately uncooperative. The other Connor ignored his half-assed attempt at stalling; now they were finally in the basement of Cyberlife tower, his attention was solely focused on his mission. He followed close behind Hank with measured steps.

They spotted Connor at the far end of the warehouse, walking past the long lines of silent androids. Hank stumbled slightly as he was shoved into Connor’s line of sight.

“Easy, fucking piece of shit…”

“Step back Connor! And I’ll spare him.”

Hank glanced around, weighing up his options. He had no weapon and no way to neutralise the one currently held inches away from his head. The room was too big, too open to make use of cover. And, with recent developments, he wasn’t sure how he felt about using _people_ as cover anyway. Rows and rows of androids lined the warehouse, active but not awake, facing forward and still. A few feet away Connor had grasped one of them at the elbow, his brow furrowed in concentration, LED flashing yellow. He’d turned his head at the disturbance but otherwise hadn’t moved.

“Sorry, Connor… this bastard’s your spitting image.” Hank couldn’t keep the disdain from his tone, nor mask his intense dislike for his captor.

“Your friend’s life is in your hands.” The other Connor continued raising the gun to be trained on Hank’s temple. “Now it’s time to decide what matters most! Him? Or the Revolution?”

“Don’t listen to him!” Hank interrupted, instinctively leaning away from the gun, as if it made a difference; he didn’t doubt the other Connor’s commitment to his task. Nor his aim. “Everything this fucker says is a lie!”

Connor’s expression was neutral, assessing, his hand still gripping the android’s forearm throughout the exchange. Hank thought he saw a flicker of concern amidst the mechanical calculations, but it was gone just as quickly, replaced with that annoyingly blank expression all androids seemed to wear.

“That human means nothing to me.” Connor called back, his voice firm. “You can kill him if you want, I don't care.”

“I have access to your memory!” The other Connor barked. It was uncanny hearing the two of them argue. It was like a bad ventriloquist act, the same voice bouncing back across the open expanse of the warehouse. They were using the same tone, both poised, assertive, trying to exert control of the situation and determined not to give the other any ammunition. “I know you've developed some kind of attachment to him. Are you really ready to let him die? After all you've been through? Are you really going to turn your back on who you've become?”

To Hank’s surprise, that seemed to work. The unconcerned mask slipped completely and Connor looked unsure, conflict written clearly on his face.

“If I surrender, how do I know you won’t kill him?”

“I’ll only do what is strictly necessary to accomplish my mission. It’s up to you whether or not that includes killing this human.” Hank didn’t miss the aggressive turn of his head at that, the way the other Connor’s eyes met his for a brief moment reflecting nothing but contempt. Hank wanted to tell Connor that he didn’t matter, to get on with what he needed to do, anything to wipe the smug expression from the other Connor’s face, but there was a distinctive click of the pistol’s hammer being drawn back. It was enough to make him hold his tongue.

“Enough talk! It’s time to decide who you really are. Are you gonna save your partner’s life? Or are you going to sacrifice him?”

Hank could hear his blood pounding in his ears, painfully aware that each beat of his heart could be the last. All Connor had to do was wait. It didn’t matter if he said anything or not; he was collateral, nothing more. Russian roulette by proxy.

“Alright! All right… you win.” Connor let go of the android’s arm as if it burned, synthetic skin rippling back over his hand as he opened his stance wide. Calming. Unassuming. He didn’t approach nor back away; a textbook – no, perfectly _android_ \- response to placate someone dangerous. And fuck, Connor knew himself better than Hank did. He knew what he was capable of-

The other Connor seemed to anticipate exactly what Connor was going to do. He turned on his heel, swinging his left arm around to point the gun squarely at Connor’s chest. The movement spurred Hank into action; he grabbed onto the other Connor’s arm, pushing the gun out of the way. Remove the immediate threat, follow up with a strike of his own.

It didn’t help.

The other Connor was fast, swinging with the momentum, balling his right hand into a fist and clocking Hank square in the jaw. His teeth rattled with the impact, and with the roaring in his ears he staggered with the punch. The other Connor followed up with another attack, the solid heel of the pistol striking him in the sternum, winding him and knocking him to the floor.

A single gunshot echoed through the tower followed by a surprised grunt.

Hank pushed himself into a sitting position just in time to see Connor fall to his knees with a blue-tinged bullet hole between his eyes. It was almost comical – his chassis was sturdy enough that he didn’t crumple the way a human would. Instead, he held his position, staring straight ahead with a dazed and confused expression.

Ten more gunshots. Connor’s body jolted and spasmed through each one as they connected with his stomach, arms, chest - none of them hitting with enough impact to knock him to the floor, but each ensuring irreparable damage.

It had all happened in a single moment.

“Connor… no…” Hank’s voice came through as a whisper. Disbelieving. He’d seen Connor cut across highway traffic, leap from moving trains, fuck, he’d even dodged point-blank bullets like it was nothing. That he could die, now, when they were so close…

“He really liked you, lieutenant,” the other Connor’s voice was condescending and cruel. Hank turned his face away, unable to school his expression. “That’s what killed him.”

Hank watched with disgust as he walked towards the elevator, casually unloading his pistol and throwing away the magazine as he passed Connor’s still-kneeling form. A cold, unfeeling machine.

Connor’s LED suddenly illuminated, cycling red, red, RED. A harsh, shuddering breath caught in Hank’s throat at the sight.

Fuck, he was still alive.

His hopes were dashed just as quickly. Before he could scramble towards him, hold him, help him – do _something_ , Connor’s LED flickered and went dark.

“No!”

Hank awkwardly crawled towards him, a hand over the blossoming pain of what promised to be a one hell of a bruise. He grabbed Connor’s body from where it was awkwardly held by the chassis’ tension and cradled him to his chest.

“Connor… Connor!” Connor’s head lolled back in a startlingly human way, eyes still fixed open, staring at nothing. Thirium leaked out of the bullet holes in his torso, starting to pool on the floor a viscus blue. Like ink. Like blood.

“Hang on, hang on! I’m gonna save you, hang on! Connor…”

Of course, there was nothing. Connor didn’t respond, and Hank felt a familiar rise of anguish rise in his chest. He pulled him closer, lifting more of Connor’s lifeless body off of the floor and onto his lap, touching his face, brushing his hair away from his forehead.

“Just, hang on. Please.”

Connor’s LED didn’t flash again.

* * *

The next few days passed in the alcohol-induced blur.

Depressive episodes had been pretty constant since Cole’s death, in admittedly varying degrees of severity, but this one was _bad_. He couldn’t even lie to himself that he was even vaguely coping well, cycling between being too drunk to function and too hungover to care.

He wished that he’d done things differently. That he’d flat out refused to be taken to the tower in the first place, noticing earlier that something was subtly _wrong_ with Connor. Or that he’d won the fight in the warehouse, overpowering the other Connor or at least allowing enough time for the real Connor to intervene. Or, if none of that was possible, that the other Connor had shot him instead. He was tired of being the one left alive.

That first night, when he’d finally made it home and collapsed exhausted in bed, Connor’s face swam through his dreams. That kicked-puppy look of surprise when he was shot, the way his body perched upright in his final moments. His damned LED spinning red before shutting off altogether. Hank had awoken squeezing Connor’s coin so hard there was an imprint in his palm. After that, Hank tried not to sleep. It was better to pass out on the kitchen floor than to repeatedly relive those final moments, a pool of blue blood growing underneath him as he cradled Connor’s limp body to his chest.

He wallowed in his own misery, unkempt, uncared for, and moments away from taking his revolver and blowing his fucking brains out.

In moments of lucidity he watched the news; the reports compounded his guilt and grief. Despite the president thanking the troops for their patriotism, vigilance and dedication to saving the United States from the android threat, the imagery that accompanied her words did nothing to allay his fear that humans were on the wrong side of history.

It had been a massacre.

The deviant leader’s death, his final act of defiance, was on repeat; helicopter footage of his immolation moments before the rest of the protesting androids were gunned down. Next, the androids in the recycling centres littering landfills across the country; it turned his stomach seeing the white plastic corpses piled high in mass graves. The unbidden thought of that invariably being Connor’s fate was enough to make him dash to the bathroom, throwing up until his stomach was empty and bile burned his throat.

Cyberlife were on full-on damage control; every single news station had a cyberlife ‘guest’, a well-dressed and gently apologetic spokesperson offering Cyberlife’s official party line that as-of-yet-unrecycled and un-deviated stock would be donated to the US government to help with relief efforts. Grief gave way to rage with the addendum that once the relief efforts were over, the ‘leftover stock’ would _of course_ be destroyed.

His cell phone was racking up dozens of missed calls and voicemails; he ignored them until the battery died. He didn’t bother recharging it; he felt marginally better for the silence. Work would have to do without him. He figured he was as good as fired anyway, especially after assaulting an FBI agent. Not even his friendship with Fowler could prevent those consequences.

This was it. No family, no job, and no one to mourn him when he was gone except an aging St Bernard.

After the third day he began to wonder why he hadn’t done it yet. He was long past caring for anything. It would just take a moment. One moment of pain and it would all be over. Cole’s death may have started this, driven him to killing himself a little every day, but Connor’s was the final nail in that coffin.

Just one moment and his guilt would stop.

It was fucking stupid. Connor was an android he had known for less than a week, and most of that had been spent actively disliking him. Even when he wasn’t trying to be an asshole, Connor had been pushy, persistent and never listened to a goddamned thing Hank had to say.

And yet.

And yet, Connor had resonated with something within him, something deep and forgotten. How long had it been since Hank had a partner who was so tenacious in wanting to work with him? Someone who wanted to get close to him?

Hank wasn’t stupid. He knew that it was all some program – Connor had explained as much, that he was designed to be the perfect partner- and those early questions about his dog, his music tastes, they were all a trick, Connor’s social relations program working as intended to make him seem likeable. But that didn’t explain why Connor had taken the time to pet Sumo when he didn’t know Hank was watching. To browse his records and books, inspect his house, not for evidence but because he just wanted to get to know him better. Because he wanted to be his friend.

Android or not, original intention or not, Connor cared. Had even admitted as much, separated his own wants and desires from his social relations program and fuck, that’s when Hank _knew_ Connor was deviant. He’d looked for emotion in him from the start and he hadn’t been disappointed. Connor had said that it was deviant behaviour to feel fear, and how many times had Connor shown that exact feeling? He was scared when Hank held a gun to his head, terrified when he’d grabbed that android at the Stratford Tower only to feel it die, and downright panicked when he was to be sent back to Cyberlife for failing to stop the deviant uprising. Normal androids didn’t sit on the edge of his desk, with earnest expressions begging for five minutes, just five minutes to complete their mission or else they will be killed.

What if Hank had made another choice? Insisted that they couldn’t – shouldn’t- find the deviants. The only thing they were doing was stopping people from being free. Connor wouldn’t have found Jericho. Wouldn’t have gone to Cyberlife Tower. Hank wouldn’t have been kidnapped by his double as a last-ditch attempt to bring him back under control and- and-

He wouldn’t have deviated. He’d have been deactivated instead. Taken apart piece by piece to find out why he failed. He’d been doomed either way.

In the background the news continued to play. It was all bullshit, a constant stream of vox pop from people who hated androids. Interviews with modern-day heroes who boasted their part destroying the androids previously in their servitude. Smug I-told-you-so’s from religious leaders. “Heart-warming” stories of little kids spotting a fleeing android and alerting authorities. All of it unironically played as though last week the general public wasn’t supportive of Markus and his goal. Power of fucking the media.

He couldn’t stand it. 

Hank took his gun and inspected the cylinder; a lone bullet was loaded into the chamber. He should stop playing this stupid game and man up. Make it a sure-fire thing.

Despite his inebriation and shaking hands he deftly loaded a bullet into each chamber, one by one. He snapped it closed and spun the cylinder. It was part of the ritual. As was the last drink, a full-throated swig of whiskey straight from the bottle.

He held the gun to his head, pressing the cool metal against the overheated skin of his temple.

But he was still too much of a fucking coward. He blacked out before he could find out if he would ever be brave enough to ever pull the trigger.

* * *

Someone came by the next morning, banging on the door with a very distinctive cop knock. Waking up from blackout drunk was never easy. It took awhile for the noise to rouse him and when it did he was hit with how much everything ached – every joint and muscle screamed in protest as he tried to sit up.

The night before came flooding back to him in one painful rush; self-loathing, despair and misery now compounded by one bitch of a hangover.

He reached for the whiskey out of habit, grimacing in distaste at how his mouth tasted, how his clothes felt against his skin. In the three years he had been playing this stupid game, he had never been so disappointed to find himself alive. The gun had fallen to the floor at some point in the night; it looked no less appealing now than it then, nestled among empty bottles and dark stains on the carpet.

“Fuck off!” He slurred, taking another swig from the bottle. The room span and tilted, and the pounding in his skull got worse, but at least his mouth didn’t taste like something had died in it.

Another knock.

“Lieutenant?” It sounded like Wilson.

Hank groaned as he took another drink. He nudged the gun under the sofa with his foot, temporarily hiding it away. He’d retrieve it later.

“Lieutenant, please open the door.”

He briefly contemplated ignoring them, or yelling at them to leave, pulling rank one final time. Sumo lifted his head, gruffly barking under his breath at the persistent banging. It didn’t sound like they were going to give up any time soon.

With considerable effort Hank stumbled towards the door. He wrenched it open, and was briefly surprised to find not only Wilson standing there, but Chris Miller as well.

“The fuck do you want?” he asked, leaning heavily at the door frame, squinting against the pale sunlight. It was a miserable day, cold, murky and overcast, but still too fucking bright.

Wilson and Miller exchanged a worried glance. Hank tried to ignore it; he knew he looked like shit.

“Sorry to disturb you lieutenant.” Miller said, “Can we come in?”

“No.”

“Lieutenant-“

“Say what you gotta say, and get outta here,” Hank said, rubbing his temples. His head was fucking killing him, and the way his stomach was churning warned that he was going to be sick soon.

“You’re needed at the station. Captain Fowler has been trying to reach you, but he can’t get through.” Miller said, his voice low and beseeching. “It sounds pretty serious – I really think you should come in.”

“I’m not goin’ fuckin’ anywhere.”

“Lieutenant…”

“Look, you’re both good cops, but it ain’t happening. Tell Fowler to leave me the fuck alone. I’m done. I’ll bring my badge and gun.”

“He said that you might say that, but he wants to speak to you, before you make any decisions.”

“It’s about what happened at Cyberlife...” Miller added, looking to Wilson for confirmation.

“What do you know about that?” Hank snapped. “I have nothing to say.” To his credit, Miller barely blinked at his outburst.

“Please lieutenant, come to the station.” 

Hank narrowed his eyes, giving them both a once over. They didn’t look like they wanted to be here, which made sense, no one wants to have the job of corralling a senior officer who decided to go AWOL, but there was something else. They both seemed to be avoiding his eye, something left unsaid. Sighing, he resigned himself to something he knew he’d regret.

“Alright. I’ll bite. What’s really going on?”

“Look, we don’t know the details about what the Captain wants to speak to you about,” Wilson said, choosing his words with care, “but there’s something else you should know.”

Miller interrupted before Hank could say anything.

“It’s about Connor.”

* * *

He shouldn’t have listened. He should have told them to fuck Cyberlife, fuck Fowler, and fuck whatever news they had about Connor. Slammed the door in their faces, and retreated back into the house to continue his downward spiral. And yet he didn’t do any of that.

None of it was going to be anything good, he reminded himself as he forced himself to shower, to drink something that wasn’t 80 proof, actually fucking eat something. It would be something mundane and disappointing, like a Cyberlife representative issuing an official apology to the DPD for supplying a defective machine, or a technician confirming that Connor was, in fact, a deviant, as though Hank hadn’t seen emotion and empathy and those very clear signs of being alive from pretty much the start.

But hope was a dangerous drug, and even finding out what happened to Connor’s body after he was forced to leave it in the basement of Cyberlife warehouse would have been something. It wouldn’t give him any sort of closure, but it might make it easier to make good on his long overdue promise of suicide.

Before heading out he retrieved the gun from where he’d hidden it earlier. Unloaded it and put it in his bedroom, back in its normal place in the bedside table drawer. He had a feeling he’d be needing it later.

He arrived at the DPD a little over an hour later with a splitting headache and a mix of anticipation and dread tying knots in his stomach. The station was in uproar. A throng of people swamped the front desk, easily five people deep along the entire row of desks, loud and irate- it felt like half of Detroit was trying to report some android-related grievance. The lone figure manning the front desk looked frazzled as she tried to sort through genuine complaints from people trying to get compensation for the inconvenience the revolution caused them. A couple of cops were doing their best to manage tempers and keep the peace, but even they were being overwhelmed by the sheer volume of people.

Hank’s expression was severe enough that he cut through the crowd with ease. No fucker wanted to be caught in his path today.

The bullpen felt like a different place. It was practically deserted this side of the barrier. The androids were all gone, the docking stations lining one wall standing empty, and most of the desks were vacant. Even Reed was elsewhere- Hank was thankful for that small mercy, he wasn’t in the mood to be dealing with that prick. He spotted Ben emerging from the canteen, eyes ringed with dark circles from an obvious all-nighter.

“Hi Ben.” He manufactured a brief smile as he approached. Of all the people to run into, Ben was definitely one of the better ones. Loyal. At one point in his life Hank would have called him a friend.

The poor guy almost dropped his coffee. To his credit he recovered quickly.

“Hank? Didn’t think I was gonna see you today.”

Hank could sense his curiosity, but didn’t feel like indulging him. It was clear what he had been doing for the past few days. He probably still reeked of whiskey, despite the shower.

“Yeah well, Fowler sent for me. Wasn’t my choice, believe me.” He glanced at Fowler’s office – he was pacing around inside, on the phone to someone, his posture was agitated and tense. The lack of shouting probably indicated that he hadn’t noticed Hank arrive yet. Fowler was a good boss, and a better friend, but Hank knew he was pushing his luck. “Looks serious.”

“Homicides tend to be. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.” Ben took a sip of his coffee, affecting an indifference he usually reserved for difficult crime scenes.

“No shit. What’s the case?”

“Don’t know the details yet; Fowler’s keeping everything as quiet as he can. But I’ve heard mention of a potential serial killer. It’s messy, in any case.” Ben’s face twisted as he deliberated what to say next. Shuffling his feet, he glanced up at Hank. “Look, Hank, about the other day-“

“It doesn’t fucking matter.” Hank said quickly, shutting him down even before he could finish his sentence. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“If you’re sure. I just wanted to hear what happened from you. Were you really at Cyberlife?”

“Ben… ” Hank said in warning as he turned towards his desk. Ben followed after him regardless, throwing aside his feigned nonchalance and launching straight into the usual line of questions.

“What were you and Connor doing there? What happened? Was he really a Deviant?”

“Look, I said I didn’t want to talk about it-“

It took a second. A stunned moment where his brain caught up with what he was seeing.

A ghost.

It was a fucking ghost. Or a fever dream, a hallucination conjured by the last dribble of his brain before it leaked out onto his kitchen floor or wherever the _fuck_ he’d finally pulled the goddamned trigger. If he was dreaming, he had a sick sense of humour to conjure up going back to work, he’d have to give himself that.

Connor sat primly at the desk opposite Hank’s, back ramrod straight with one hand interfacing with the computer console. Looking at the monitor, the translucent screen reflected a bluish light onto his face. It was like nothing had happened; he didn’t have a scratch on him, no bullet holes, no bloodstains, his LED bright as he scanned through his files.

Ignoring Ben’s questions, Hank took a hesitant step forward as though he was in a trance. It felt surreal, dreamlike; that dormant feeling of hope flared once again. A second chance.

“You’re dead,” Hank whispered, his voice catching against a lump in his throat. Connor didn’t react. Another step forward, stopping at the edge of Connor’s desk. “Connor, I saw you get killed…”

Connor flicked his eyes up, recognition passing his face but nothing else. No awkward smile in greeting, no warmth in his eyes.

“Good morning lieutenant. So glad that you finally made it into the office.”

Hank’s blood turned to ice, a punch to the gut as realisation hit like a fucking truck. He felt as though he was going to be sick. He knew that cool, derisive tone.

“No. Fuck no. What the fuck are _you_ doing here?!”

Connor removed his hand from the console and the screen went dark. He met Hank’s gaze head on, unflinching.

“I’m sorry if you’ve forgotten, Lieutenant,” he said, sarcastic and mocking, “alcohol _is_ known to have detrimental effects on the human brain, especially around memory. I’m Connor, the android sent by Cyberlife to-“

Before he could finish his spiel, Hank had rounded the desk, hoisted him out of his chair, and slammed him up against the partition wall. His hands gripping the lapels of Connor’s jacket, knuckles white with fury.

“You fucking piece of shit,” he growled. His hands trembled where they grasped. Connor looked down at him with a neutral expression.

“Lieutenant, if you continue with this sort of behaviour I am going to-“

“To what? You gonna shoot me too?”

“No. I will have to report you for disciplinary action. And with your track record, especially after your assault of Agent Perkins, the consequences are likely to be quite severe.”

“I’ll give you something to report, you fucking plastic prick.”

Connor didn’t flinch. His eyes were boring into Hank’s, his face a perfect mask.

Hank let go of Connor’s jacket, hand already drawing back in a fist. The bullpen had been quiet before, but now it was hushed, waiting with baited breath for what was to happen next.

“Hitting me would serve no purpose, Lieutenant. Androids don’t feel pain.”

Before he could retort, punch him, do _anything_ , Fowler’s voice cut through the silence.

“Hank; in my office. Connor, get back to work.”

* * *

There was something infuriating about the way Connor did as he was told, taking his place at the computer terminal and resuming his scan of the case files as if nothing had happened. A good little machine. Almost charging into Fowler's office, Hank closed the door behind him a little more forcefully than he intended. The glass rattled in the door frame.

“What the hell is that fucking prick doing here?” He deliberately kept his back turned away from the bullpen. He couldn’t bear to look at Connor. Not right now.

Much like Ben, Fowler looked exhausted. His shoulders were tense around his neck, looking like the entire world rested on his shoulders. Slumped into his chair, held up by sheer willpower and coffee, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No – I’m asking the questions here. What the hell do you think you’re doing, harassing Connor like that? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“That-” Hank gestured wildly to Connor’s desk. It got under Hank’s skin, the way he looked entirely unaffected. “That piece of shit is not Connor. Connor’s dead.”

“Hank, they’re not alive. I never thought I’d have to remind you of all people of that fact.” Fowler narrowed his eyes, looking at Hank like he had lost his mind. Perhaps he had. “You also _know_ that we had an agreement with Cyberlife that if anything were to happen to the Connor unit they will send a replacement. And, given how short staffed we are, we’re goddamn lucky that they are still honouring that, even when everything has gone to shit.”

“Bullshit. It’s fucking bullshit Jeffrey and you know it. Why now? Why has Cyberlife suddenly decided to send that bastard in?”

“If you had bothered to return my calls, you would know that Connor has been here for the past three days. He turned up for work as normal– just like you should have.”

“Oh that’s just peachy. Fucking perfect. Why the fuck would he do that?” Hank paced back and forth, all pent-up anger and aggression. His headache was in full force, and his hands were automatically balling into fists. Fowler kept his eyes trained on him the entire time.

“He’s got a job to do. Just like you.”

“On whose orders?”

“ _My_ orders.” Fowler interrupted, exasperated and worn down. He took a breath, a deep bone-weary sigh. “In case you haven’t noticed, the entire city is crying out for our help and we are so short staffed everyone is on double shift for the foreseeable. Having an android right now is a fucking godsend. Especially one as advanced as Connor.”

Hank shot Connor a dirty look through the glass - if Connor could hear the conversation, he was giving no indication - and leaned forward on Fowler’s desk.

“I can’t work with him, Jeffrey, not after what he did.”

“ _What he did_ was stop a defective machine from sabotaging a mission the FBI had specifically taken over, a mission that the president of the US of fucking A had to personally oversee. And you can count your damn lucky stars that Perkins did not have enough evidence to prove you were involved, even after you assaulted him.”

“’Stop a defective machine’ – Jeffrey, where the fuck did you hear that?”

“Connor submitted a report. He was very specific.”

“I bet he was.”

“He said that the previous Connor unit had shown signs of deviancy, was caught trying to aid the revolution. Are you saying it isn’t true?”

“Fuck,” Hank groaned, shaking his head in disbelief. It hadn’t even crossed his mind to submit a debrief report; he didn’t think he’d need to, considering the highest priority at that moment was to drink himself into oblivion. “Never thought I’d see the day – my boss believing a machine instead of asking me.”

Fowler looked personally affronted. He pointed an accusatory finger at Hank.

“Don’t start with that bullshit – Hank, I _tried_ to get a hold of you, but you’ve been screening my calls for three fucking days. And I can’t ignore the facts; Connor illegally gained access to the evidence locker, assaulting Reed in the process, and was later seen assisting the deviants at Jericho. He then broke into Cyberlife tower and killed two employees to gain access to thousands of Cyberlife androids. Are you honestly saying that you don’t believe he was defective?”

There was a tense moment. There was no arguing with this. To admit that he knew was ill-advised; to insist otherwise flew in the face of everything that was at the crux of the issue. Connor had been _alive_. Hank sighed, shoulders sagging as he ran his hands over his face.

"I don’t know any more Jeffrey.” He admitted, voice low. “He always insisted that he wasn’t deviant. All the time. All I know is that I believed him.”

“Hank. One thing I don’t understand is, what were _you_ doing there? Connor conveniently left it out of his report, and I distinctly remember that I suspended your ass.”

“I know. And I went home. But Connor came to me for help and I...” he let the rest of his sentence hang for a moment. “I wanted to do the right thing.”

He waited with baited breath, for Fowler to push and prod; he didn’t get to the rank of Captain without being good at his job. Luckily, it seemed to be enough. Fowler sighed and Hank felt the fight drain out of him in relief. He met Fowler’s eyes, and found them sympathetic.

“Hank – okay. This is how this is going to go. I don’t know if you were deliberately aiding Connor or not. I don’t know if you knew he was deviant. And I definitely don’t know if you hit Agent Perkins out of a personal grievance or if you were stalling him. As far as I know, you were repeatedly at the wrong place at the wrong time. Conveniently for everyone, this is as far as it needs to go. Look, as I told you before, you’re back on homicide. There is a huge fucking case sat here that has the potential to blow up if you don’t get on it.”

“What about that thing?” Hank asked, feeling a small spike of anger. The other Connor being here when Connor was not was too much of an insult.

“Connor is still pursuing deviant androids. There aren’t many of them left- a few have allegedly been spotted after the recycling plants were dismantled – and it falls under our jurisdiction to catch them now that the army has withdrawn. Once he’s done, he will be sent back to Cyberlife. And after today’s display, I’d be much happier if you just let him do his job. Keep out of his way.”

Hank sighed and turned to face his old friend and boss. Fowler nodded towards the chair in front of his desk. Hank all but fell into it, exhausted. It wasn’t even noon yet and he felt dead on his feet. “Hank. You look like shit. You want to tell me what all this is really about?”

“I’m not cut out for this Jeffrey. I think it’s time to take that retirement.”

Fowler leaned forward in his chair and beckoned for Hank to do the same.

“Hank… off the record, I’ve known you for a long time. Too long. And speaking as your friend, and not your boss, you need to be here. Doing what you do best. It’s never suited you, sitting at home, doing nothing all day.”

Hank bit his tongue. He wanted to argue that doing his best had gotten his partner killed, but he knew it wouldn’t be seen that way. Not when a perfect imitation of Connor sat not ten feet away. He grunted noncommittally instead.

“Look into this case, and if you truly want to resign, let me know in a few days. I can’t stop you, but I don’t think you should be making a rash decision on this. For what it’s worth, the department needs you.”

There was a tense silence. Another choice. Hank felt old and tired. His thoughts drew back to the gun in his bedside table. He was probably too sober to immediately go home and use it, but it wouldn’t take much, a few drinks.

Perhaps one more case, one more chance to help someone, would make him feel less guilty about following through on a very old threat.

“Yeah, alright. Let’s have a look.”

“A number of potentially connected murders started almost immediately after the formal announcement of the end of the Deviancy Crisis and the emergency curfew was lifted. We don’t know all the details yet, but there’s enough here to have us look into it as a potential vigilante group.”

“Has Reed looked into it? Sounds like his sort of thing.”

“Yes. He’s the one who made the initial link, as tentative as it is right now.”

“So why isn’t he following up?”

Fowler shot him a tired look, and Hank saw a brief glimpse of what Fowler had been dealing with. It was too much for one man. He sympathised.

“We’re swamped here, Hank. We’re operating on less than half our initial strength, and every single criminal in Michigan is taking advantage of this very unique opportunity, if you catch my drift.”

“Yeah I get you. Ben’s busy too?”

“There’s been a rise in trafficking cases that we’ve had to pull him onto. Not to mention the violent assault, home invasion and looting – the entire city has lost its goddamn mind.”

Fowler pulled out a file from a locked cabinet next to his desk. Hank raised an eyebrow as it slid over to him. Inside was a single electronic tablet, paper thin, and displaying a warning that it was at memory capacity. Hank sighed and pinched his nose as he flicked through the digital notes. Grisly images flashed past his eyes as he skimmed through the crime scene photos. He needed a fucking drink.

“We’re keeping the details on lockdown for now, need-to-know basis only. The last thing we need is the media getting wind before we’re ready. There are probably more links to other cases that we haven’t established, but Reed did what he could with the time he had.”

“Okay. I’ll see what I can do. But this is my last case.”

Fowler held out his hand and after staring at it for a moment, Hank shook it.

“Now get out of here and do your job.”

* * *

Jimmy’s bar wasn’t his first choice. It wasn’t even his second, but it was one of the few that didn’t ask too many questions and importantly, let him keep drinking when he was well on his way to wasted. Like now. Jimmy kept his mouth shut about Hank being there, and Hank didn’t bust him for illegally running a sportsbook whenever some high-profile game was on. Neither of them was hurting anybody. The system worked.

Plus, people didn’t go to Jimmy’s to be loud, or have a good time. He could quietly let the world fade into a dull background noise with other wretched souls who wanted the same. And he had a lot to try and forget; today had been so deeply fucking unpleasant that he’d only managed a few hours at the station, deciding to duck out when his hangover peaked.

Easing his headache with a few strategic beers had quickly turned into an afternoon of drinking.

Connor’s presence was at least partly to blame. The other Connor. RK800. Whatever the fuck Hank was supposed to call him. Not because he had tried to antagonise Hank again, or really said much at all, but because for a brief moment Hank would forget that it wasn’t _his_ Connor sitting across from him. He had all of his mannerisms; absent-mindedly chewing his lip while reading, curiously glancing around the room or spinning a pen over his knuckles when he was between tasks. Idle actions that were identical to the little tells that Hank had chalked up to Connor’s burgeoning deviancy. It hurt to see them reduced to _programming_. That Hank had been wrong.

For the most part Connor sat at his desk with android-perfect posture, perfectly focused on his task. But occasionally Hank caught him watching, catching his eye for a split second only to immediately look away; the troubled expression on his face got Hank wondering what on earth was going through his head. It couldn’t have been Hank’s demeanour; such a trivial thing as Hank not wanting to talk to him had never discouraged Connor before, but something was making Connor turn, pause for a second, frown, then turn back to the job at hand.

The third time it had happened, Hank had snapped.

“You stuck in a weird fucking loop or something? What do you want?”

“No. Nothing, lieutenant.” Fucking hell, it was hard to listen to him, bordering on painful. When _this_ Connor wasn’t being a condescending asshole, he sounded exactly like – well, it was a redundant thought.

“It doesn’t look like ‘nothing’ from where I’m sitting,” Hank muttered, unable to stop himself from continuing a conversation he desperately didn’t want to have. Connor turned to face him, and if Hank didn’t know any better, he would say that he looked _pleased_. As pleased as an emotionless machine could, anyway.

“I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just that I am programmed to work with a partner, and I was wondering if you would allow me to review this case with you? We have a history of working well together, and I would value your input.”

Hank looked at him, incredulous. He sounded so sincere, a genuine request in the same tone of voice that a few days ago Hank would have done anything for. There were many reasons why he would refuse; his opinions on hunting androids, his orders to leave Connor and his case alone, but he landed on the simplest: spite.

“I have never fucking worked with _you_ ,” he snapped, his face twisted into a scowl. “And I’m not about to start now. I would rather drive needles into my eyes than give you a second of my fucking time. So, no. Fuck no.”

“But it would be more efficient if-“

“Fuck you,” Hank interrupted. “I don’t care. Be a good little robot and go bother someone else.”

Connor had left the bullpen, his expression schooled into that infuriatingly perfect mask as he walked past Hank’s desk. Hank deliberately hadn’t watched where he went, and had spent the next half an hour convincing himself that he didn’t want to know. It hurt that Connor could do that, drop the cold attitude like a bad habit and instead speak in a way that he thought would get Hank to do the thing he wanted him to do. Fucking social relations program.

Focusing on the case did nothing to alleviate his foul mood either. The case files were messy, complicated, and full of areas of investigation that desperately needed a follow-up. The coroner hadn’t finished the full autopsies yet so all he had to go on were the crime scene forensics- rushed and basic- and initial vague witness statements.

There was no obvious link in the modus operandi. A twenty-two-year-old woman with her arms cut open along the radial artery, wrist to elbow, pronounced dead from blood loss. A forty-year-old man with the vivid bruising of ligature strangulation. A couple in their thirties with a bloody baseball bat left at their feet; cranial bone fractures, severe facial bruising, and lacerations caused by blunt force trauma. A twenty-six-year-old man with ten stab wounds to his stomach, perforating the ileum and bowel. An elderly lady, beaten to death with a hammer. And, the emotional gut-punch: a family of four shot dead in their home, the children cowering in the corner of the bedroom with a now-illegal android failing to shield them with her body, the parents a few feet away, kneeling for an execution. The children couldn’t have been older than ten, two young girls. The crime scene photos clearly showed that they had both been shot multiple times.

That one affected him more than he thought it would, caught him off guard with the severity of his reaction. He’d left after that, citing a need for fresh air. It was only partly an excuse; his hangover had steadily gotten worse to the point where he couldn’t concentrate any more.

He hadn’t gone back; finding a bar almost on autopilot. 

He’d lost count of his drinks – it all got blurry once he’d switched from beer to whiskey – but he was vaguely aware that it was getting late. Patrons had come and gone in a steady stream of background noise. He’d leave too, eventually. Go home and get drunker, retrieve his revolver and see how much of a coward he was.

The door opened with a creak, letting in an icy blast of wintery air that cut through the fog of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Hank shivered, curling in on his drink.

“What the fuck…?”

“I didn’t think there were any left.”

“Someone call the damn police or something.”

Calm, measured footsteps approached.

“Lieutenant Anderson?”

Hank groaned. Of course this would happen when he didn’t want to be found. He subtly turned his head away, hiding his face under a curtain of hair, not responding to his name. He knew Connor had spotted him, he just wanted to delay the inevitable for a moment longer.

Connor didn’t get very far. The low murmurs and hushed conversations stopped, changing into something urgent, aggressive. There was a distinctive sound of a scuffle, a dull thud and a crash. People moved out of their seats, chairs scraping against the chipped tiles.

“Fucking tin can-!”

Curiosity got the better of him; Hank glanced over and saw Connor trying to regain his balance after being pushed into the wall, a signed photo of some baseball player now lying in a broken frame on the floor. He didn’t look particularly annoyed at being shoved.

Hank snorted and took another sip of his drink. He couldn’t think of anyone better deserving of a little rough-housing.

“All androids are banned in this building. What are you doing here?” Jimmy asked Connor, leaning over the bar, not otherwise particularly trying to intervene.

Connor stood up straight, adjusting his pristine cuffs.

“I understand; however, under Detroit City Police Department’s jurisdiction my model is authorised to enter any premises necessary to complete my mission. I apologise if that causes any inconvenience.”

No sooner had Connor finished speaking when something sailed through the room and smashed against his skull. It was a clean hit – glass shattered dramatically on impact, cutting tiny rivets into Connor’s skin. He brought his hand up to his hair, and inspected his fingers when they came back blue.

“Oh.”

Something primal seeped into the usual melancholy of the bar, a charged atmosphere. Blood in the water. 

The guy who shoved Connor before squared up against him, standing chest to chest.

“You heard the man. We don’t want your kind here,” he snarled, pushing him again. Connor rolled his shoulder with the movement, but didn’t back down, regarding his assailant with a neutral expression. More than one patron started to crowd round, waiting for the most basic form of justice.

When the first punch was thrown Connor didn’t fight back, but he did dodge as best he could in such a confined space. Most of the blows aimed at him missed, and he didn’t flinch at the ones which did connect. He was _fast_ \- Hank was reminded just what Connor was built for. If he didn’t fucking hate the guy, he’d be impressed with how well he’d held his own.

The fight was beginning to escalate. It had only been a few moments, but Hank had been in enough bar-room brawls to see where this was going to end up.

“Alright, break it up.” All eyes snapped to him, some with relief, others with disappointment that they were going to be denied their show. “He’s with me. Police business.”

He unsteadily slid off of the barstool, tugging at his coat closer around him. One of the regulars approached him as he stood, speaking to him in a low, urgent tone.

“You’re a cop, right? Did you see that shit? It went fucking crazy!”

“It’s one of those deviants!” Another guy interjected, calling to him from across the room. “You gotta destroy it!”

“Nah, he’s not. He’s just an asshole.” Unfortunately, he silently added. Hank finished his drink, downing the glass in one.

“Sorry Hank,” Jim said, “I’m gonna have to ask you both to leave. I don’t want any trouble.” He gestured to the bar, the broken glass, looking thoroughly uncomfortable with how the evening had turned out.

“Yeah yeah, I’ll get rid of him. Uh, sorry about the mess.”

He stepped up to Connor. Thirium was freely flowing from the headwound hidden by his synthetic hair; the white collar of his shirt was stained a deep cobalt blue.

“Right, you found me. What do you want?”

Connor straightened his jacket and tie from where they had been knocked askew. A ripple of white was visible under his left eye, rapidly healing, and a smudge of blue blood stained his lower lip.

“We got off on the wrong foot lieutenant.” Standing tall, Connor offered his default polite smile, offering his hand to shake. “I’d like us to start over if we are to have a good working relationship. Like before. What do you say?”

Hank ignored his hand, and grasping his shoulder forcibly led him to the door. The conflict he’d felt at the DPD – one he’d tried to bury under a layer of whiskey- had returned in a rush, a low-level simmering of anger settling like a weight in his chest, compounded by the encompassing sense of loss.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

Compared to the smoky warmth of Jimmy’s bar, it felt fucking freezing outside. The ground snow had frozen into an icy sheet and more threatened to fall. Hank buttoned his coat right up to the neck, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and tried hard to ignore the cold sting in his lungs with each breath.

Connor seemed entirely unconcerned by the frigid temperature. He’d crossed his arms across his chest, but it was a superficial action. He didn’t have the tell-tale hunch in his shoulders from bracing himself against the biting wind, or the clench in his jaw as he tried to repress shivers. 

“I’m glad I managed to find you, lieutenant,” he said, his tone friendly. “I waited at the station for a while, and tried you at home when it became clear you weren’t coming back today, but-”

“The fuck do you want me for?” Hank interrupted. His heart was beating a little too fast, but he was too drunk to determine which emotion had him in its grip. It was nothing good. “Haven’t you done enough damage? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“I wanted to apologise for my behaviour back at the station. It was rude of me to speak to you the way I did, especially in front of Detective Collins.”

Hank pinched the bridge of his nose. Stupid fucking _machine_. He mentally cursed whoever at Cyberlife designed that piece of shit code.

“Stop. Just stop it.”

“I mean it. I would like us to get back to where we were. I enjoyed working with you and-”

“You’re not Connor,” Hank snapped, louder than intended. “Stop talking like you are.”

Connor paused for a second, LED circling yellow. Processing. “I am Connor, model #313 248 317.” His tone had shifted away from the friendly demeanour and back to his default, neutral one. “The same model as my predecessor, the Connor you spent your time with.”

“Bullshit. You’re nothing like him.” It was a lie, and part of the problem. It was too easy to forget that this wasn’t _him_.

“We have the same programming. We are identical in every way, lieutenant.”

Hank shook his head in disgust and started to walk towards wherever the hell he had parked his car. He wasn’t fit to drive, but fuck it. Who was gonna stop him? He kept a quick albeit erratic pace, deliberately not looking at Connor when he hurried to walk by his side. His presence felt too familiar. The silence was tense, something ugly building with each step. 

The silence didn’t last long.

“May I ask you a question lieutenant?”

“No.”

Snow was starting to fall; he could feel it settling in his hair, cold damp pinpricks. He shivered, pulling his coat closer around himself. He spotted his car in the distance, parked by the side of the road. It hadn’t been snowing very long but the hood was already covered in a white dusting.

Connor ignored him, and continued to walk by his side. “Previous memories indicate that apologising to you improved our relationship. I am curious as to why you seem determined to hate me as much as you do.”

Hank stopped in his tracks. He grabbed Connor’s arm, gripping tight, forcing him to turn and face him. Connor went easily with the movement, stumbling slightly as he was manhandled. For all Connor’s strength he was somewhat lighter than someone of his height and build otherwise would be. The downside of being largely made of plastic.

“Because, you fucking piece of shit, you killed my partner in cold blood, I have to look at your stupid face at work, and now you’re here, bothering me for god knows why.” He pulled Connor closer, close enough to see the details of his face, every constructed pore and freckle. “You could repeat every single conversation we ever had and I’d still be one moment away from pushing you into fucking traffic.”

Connor looked down at the grip on his arm, and then to the road beside them. It was deathly quiet, too late – or too early, depending on the point of view – for there to be any cars on the road. He looked thoughtful, and entirely unafraid.

“As expensive as I am to build, Cyberlife would most likely send another unit if you destroyed me. They consider the case I’m working on to be important, and I’m the best model for the job.”

Hank sneered and let Connor go. Jeff had mentioned that Cyberlife would do that, just continue to throw their prototype androids at the situation until one succeeded. That there was more than one Connor model made his head spin. He fished his keys out of his pocket and struggled to open the semi-frozen lock. He felt sick, cold. He just wanted to go home crawl into his misery and just forget for a little while. Going back to work had been a mistake.

He opened the driver’s side door, and a moment later it was slammed closed. Connor blocked his path when he tried to open it again.

“What the fuck?”

“You shouldn’t drive under the influence. That is a felony, and as a high-ranking member of the police force you shouldn’t be committing such a serious act of negligence.”

“Like I care. Move.”

“No. I cannot let you-“

“You don’t _let_ me do anything, fucking android. I’ve had enough of you. Leave me the fuck alone. You already fucked up my day, got me kicked out of my bar, and now you want to stop me from going home? Fuck you."

He tried to push Connor aside but he stood firm, hand on the car door keeping it closed. Hank narrowed his eyes. Connor met his gaze, unflinching. The challenge was clear.

“I’m sorry lieutenant, you’re too drunk to drive.”

It was more of a slap than a punch, hitting Connor’s jaw so hard the synthetic skin faded to white for a moment and the loud _smack_ echoing through the icy streets. Connor rolled with the hit, his head snapping to the side with the impact before slowly turning his head back to face him. The cool tone had returned to his voice.

“Do you feel better, lieutenant?”

That did it. Hank felt wound too tight, all of that internalised pain needing an out. He’d tried burying it. Tried drowning it. And there was nowhere else for it to go. So, he did what he vowed never to do as a cop, no matter the severity of the circumstance. Hank rarely lost his temper like this, giving in to a side of him he wasn’t proud of. He rounded on Connor with a growl, grabbing his shirt collar and dragging him into the street. He had been a cop for a long time, born and raised in Detroit, worked his way up from the academy; he knew how to fight dirty, trying to do nothing more than to inflict _hurt_.

It was satisfying, even if it was ultimately futile.

His fists connected with Connor’s face, gripped his hair and slammed his head into the hood of the car. His knee connected with his stomach; a sharp elbow driving into the plastic plates of Connors back.

It made him feel better- justified, even- that the fight wasn’t entirely one-sided. Connor was trying to defend himself. Perhaps deflecting more than striking, but at least one fist connected with Hank’s chest and he wasn’t exactly pulling his punches. Just like that night in Cyberlife Tower. In that second Hank didn’t care. It spurred him on, pain feeding pain.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or that catastrophic combination of grief and rage, but he seemed to leave himself for a moment. When he came back his nose was bleeding, his hands hurt where the skin of his knuckles had torn, and Connor was pinned beneath him, nestled in the snow, one of Hank’s hands around his throat, the other raised to punch down into his face.

Connor’s skin was doing that weird android bruising thing where it showed the white of the chassis. He’d seemed to have focused a lot of his punches at Connor’s face and head; the plating of his skull was cracked in multiple places and the snow beneath them was stained blue. Blue blood flowed from a split lip and the android equivalent of a broken nose, covering his teeth as he looked up at Hank with a surprised expression. His LED was spinning red.

“Are… are you going to destroy me, Hank?”

His voice had a static overlay, slightly garbled. Maybe it was Hank’s imagination, but he thought there was a hint of fear to it. Or maybe he was projecting.

The memory of Connor lying in a pool of his own blood came unbidden. The look of surprise on his face, cradled in Hank’s arms.

“Fuck!” Hank snatched his hands away from Connor, almost falling on his haste to get to his feet, backing up until he rested against the side of his car. Connor hadn’t moved, was silent. His eyes tracked Hank as he moved, his expression stoic, but his LED was still cycling erratically between yellow and red.

“Fuck,” Hank said on an exhale of breath, running his hands through his now snow-damp hair.

Shivering with adrenaline and cold – his coat and pants were soaked through, and the wind-chill was doing everything to leech from him the last of his heat – he scrambled into his car. Connor slowly sat up, drawing his long legs under himself as he smoothly got to his feet, but made no other move to stop Hank from driving.

Hank slammed the car into a hasty reverse, leaving Connor alone in the snow.


	2. Stay Out of My Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for the comments and kudos - I am honestly humbled by everyone's responses. I know this isn't necessarily a popular plotline (or general tone), but I'm glad that folk are enjoying it regardless :)

Hank had no recollection of getting home. Snippets of memory felt patchwork. Incomplete. Incoherent snatches of sensation. Driving into the oncoming snow. City lights flashing red and yellow. His house, cold and unwelcoming. Sumo pushing his huge head into Hank’s legs when he stumbled through the door. Whiskey burning his throat. The unfamiliar sting of alcohol on fresh wounds. Waking up in the bathroom in a pool of his own vomit and in so much pain he wondered if his liver had finally given out on him.

When he was cognizant – eventually feeling strong enough to splash water on his face and neck, to pick himself up off the floor and into some semblance of coherence- he was unsurprised to find that at some point he had retrieved his gun. It lay at his feet, dull and heavy, contrasting against the bathroom tile floor. He didn’t remember, but he knew he pointed it to his head last night, felt the muzzle pressed to his forehead, trying to draw up the courage to pull the trigger. He always got that far. There was obviously something stopping him from just ending things just yet. Fuck if he knew what.

Sobering up was never a comfortable experience. The familiar sensation of guilt weighed heavy from yet more decisions he’d come to regret. He shouldn’t have fought Connor. Shouldn’t have lost control, hit him so hard as to damage him. Shouldn’t have left him stranded in the snow, injured and alone in a bad part of town in the midst of a crimewave. Hell, if even the regulars at Jimmy’s had been ready to lay into Connor for just walking into their bar, then some punk happening across an injured android would undoubtedly do worse. He shouldn’t have risen to Connor’s challenge, to allow himself to feel the raw hurt of interacting with someone who was so familiar and yet… not. He promised Fowler he would leave him alone; it was just too hard when Connor sought him out.

Despite wanting to write the day off, succumbing to feeling stiff, sore and tired, he forced himself to get his shit together. Not that it was easy; it took him longer than usual to gather the energy, to push through the pain and try to undo some of the damage he caused. He felt listless and clumsy as he went through his usual routine following a bad night; cleaning the bathroom, throwing his clothes in the laundry, trying to chase away the bad taste in his mouth. Stripping for the shower revealed a rainbow of bruises across his torso that he could barely remember taking – he prodded at the worst offenders, wincing as a pain blossomed over his chest. A faded blue stained his hands, mottling the broken skin of his knuckles. He scrubbed it away with unnecessary fervour, mind swirling with feelings of guilt and dread.

It took a while – and swallowing a handful of painkillers dry- before he was starting to feel slightly more human. He still looked like shit, and everything hurt in more ways than just the physical, but he could probably make it to work without throwing up again.

He had to, for more reasons than just the case.

He put his phone back on charge while he waited for his coffee to brew; there were more messages from Fowler than he cared for, so he deleted them out of hand. He knew he shouldn't throw Fowler’s friendship back in his face like that, but there was only so much regret he could carry. In the middle of scrolling through the missed calls and voicemails he stumbled across an unknown number in the history, calling him twice in the small hours of the morning. There was a voicemail too, which gave him pause, but he didn’t check it. He never did. If it were important, they would call back.

* * *

He made it into the DPD by the mid-afternoon when the sun was low in the sky and the winter light was already fading. The city felt drained of colour, as grey and pallid as the people inhabiting it as they tried to form some semblance of normalcy in the wake of the revolution. Misery loves company, and the city was drowning in it. The front desk at the station was no less busy than it had been the day before – a clamouring hoard demanding justice, reparations, support, satisfaction - it seemed to have no end. The bullpen was just as full of empty desks and exhausted cops, shuffling around trying and almost failing to keep their heads above water. The long shifts were taking their toll; almost everyone had the same dead look in their eyes, same slump to their shoulders. They couldn’t keep this up forever. Something had to give, or else break.

Fowler being amongst those absent caught Hank off guard. He’d almost become the embodiment of the DPD, an indisputable core of everything they did; it had been a long time since Hank had seen his office empty, and he felt a little lost for it. They might not have always seen eye to eye, but there was something grounding about having such an old friend at his back. Connor wasn’t in the office either, compounding the unease in a way that Hank hadn’t prepared for, sparking a flutter of panic that he quickly tried to stamp down. He’d expected a day of sulks and icy silences, cold indifference, or perhaps deliberate antagonism – even his Connor could be sassy, and this version had proven that he was not above being cruel – not to be greeted with an empty desk and no indication that he’d even returned last night.

He tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that Connor was built to hunt deviants; he was Cyberlife’s bloodhound and didn’t need – or likely _want_ \- Hank worrying after him. Their fight had been nothing in the grand scheme of things, a drunken scuffle in the snow. Connor was far more likely to be off neutralizing some fleeing android, not lying in a broken heap somewhere. All the same, he couldn’t shift the mental image of Thirium running down Connor’s face, dripping from his hair, staining the snow as he looked up at Hank with fear in his eyes. Scared. Scared of _Hank_. Anything could have happened to him.

It was difficult to resist the urge to go back to Jimmy’s, first to get a drink – to feel better, to numb his guilt- and then to retrace his steps. Even if he didn’t find Connor, he might find someone who did. Find some clue of his whereabouts. He talked himself out of the idea almost as soon as it entered his head. He hated Connor, hated him for what he did, what he took from him. All this was – this feeling of apprehension- was misplaced guilt. Hank didn’t want to let his guilt drive his decisions any more.

The hours ticked on painfully slow, and Connor never showed. Hank refused to acknowledge that his trepidation was what had driven him to interrogate every officer coming into the station. Not that it led anywhere; no one had seen Connor, no one was working with him, and no one was concerned that he hadn’t been back to the station for almost 24 hours.

In the interim Hank tried to focus on the case. It was tedious, time consuming work, and after the first hour he felt his eyes blurring and losing focus; not even coffee was helping. The autopsy reports had come back at some point that morning; the murders were certainly planned – no fingerprints, doors neatly unlocked and with no other disturbances in the crime scenes than the murders themselves. The killers were very skilled in what they did; even in the more haphazard murders using blunt weapons – the hammer, the baseball bat - the coroner had concluded that the strikes were very precise. Practiced.

That complicated things. A vigilante group was one thing – a righteous mob only had its size for strength – but this looked _organised_. And that meant meticulous preparation, a concrete motive beyond someone being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. With cases like that he would have expected a calling card or some demands by now, but so far none of the crime scenes had turned up anything.

As much as it pained him, he still didn’t have enough to form a definitive lead.

It was pitch-dark outside when Reed came into the office, frustration radiating off of him, drenched with the unyielding snowfall. His loud voice filled the bullpen and for once Hank welcomed the distraction. He glanced up as Reed rounded the desks, watching to see if Connor was with him; unfortunately, only Chris Miller followed dutifully behind, looking equally bedraggled.

“Fucking piece of shit, bastard knew we were coming,” Reed rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. Snow covering his coat immediately thawed, leaving a small puddle where he stood.

“He was on edge,” Miller said carefully, peeling off the wax-cotton layers of his overcoat and shaking the worst from his hat. “He must have had eyes on the street.”

“We were so close!” Reed picked up a coffee mug that had been on his desk for at least a day and drained the contents with a wince. He slammed the mug down with more force than necessary, letting out a groan of frustration. “Fuck.”

“Bad night?” Hank asked, addressing Miller from across the room. Miller shot him a tired look, letting his shoulders drop as he ran a hand through his tightly-cropped hair.

“Yeah. Some traffickers were trying to shift some androids in their possession but they split before we could get close. We lost them near Camden.”

“They’ll probably show up again before the night is out,” Hank offered, “They’ll be spotted if they move as a group; if I hear any reports come through, I’ll let you know.” 

“Thanks, lieutenant.” 

Reed stalked over to Hank’s desk, agitated and tense. “Hey Hank? Where’s the tin can?”

“Why the hell would I know?” 

“What, I thought you two were all over each other.” 

Hank shrugged, forcing apathy as he leaned back in his chair. Reed gave him a once over, no doubt picking up on all the details Hank wished he wouldn’t. The obvious after effects of his drinking, the shiner under his left eye.

Reed burst out laughing, a low obnoxious laugh. “Fuck, what happened to you!? Lover’s tiff?”

“Yeah, yeah. What do you want?” Hank sighed. He raised an unconcerned eyebrow, looking Reed dead in the eye. For all his posturing, Reed looked just as exhausted as everyone else.

“For it to fucking do its job. What’s the fucking point of having an ‘android detective’ if it doesn’t fucking turn up?” 

“I haven’t seen him.”

“Good. Yeah, fucking _good_. We don’t need any plastic pricks around here, especially not that asshole.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Hank agreed, wishing that he didn’t mean it. Feelings of guilt or not, it didn’t change anything, didn’t change how he felt. Not really.

“If you ask me, we should just, uh, _retire_ it and be done with it. Hell, I’ll gladly put a bullet between its eyes myself.” He mimed the action, pulling his fingers into the approximation of a gun. 

He glanced over to Hank and grinned. “Unless you wanna do it. It’s your pet.”

Hank thought to last night, the snatches of it he could remember through the alcohol and rage. He’d tried to seriously hurt Connor, and for a brief moment he’d been convinced Connor looked fearful. Would he have shot Connor if he had his gun with him?

Would he have killed him?

He waved Reed’s taunts away, not wanting to think about it. 

“If you don’t mind, I’m just going to get back to doing my job,” Hank said, turning back to his tablet. He could still hear Reed smirking.

“Detective Reed?” Miller approached the two of them, hesitant, police radio in hand. “Sorry to interrupt. Santigo has been spotted downtown, and he’s not alone. He must have regrouped with those androids.”

“Fucking great. Don’t just stand there - let’s go!”

They left in a rush. Hank caught Reed’s expression as he took off into the cold once more, an unpleasant sneer twisting his mouth. As much as Hank hated to admit it, their absence brought a silence to the bullpen that made him feel unbearably isolated. 

For something to do he went to make himself another coffee; the pot in the break room was bitter and stale, but he had to do something other than pour over case notes and not get anywhere. The whole thing set his teeth on edge. He was going around in circles; not all of the victims had notable debt, or had associations with people with a history of violence, or criminal records themselves. But there was always one possibility, a common thread running through his entire career; Red Ice still had the city in its grip. Hank hadn’t been on a narcotics case for years, but there was something familiar about calling up some of his old colleagues. He even had their numbers memorised. 

It was worth a shot, if nothing else, it couldn’t hurt.

Despite the late hour the phone was answered on the second ring. Hank felt a swell of nostalgia in his chest as Sergeant Brown’s gruff voice barked a terse “yes?”

“Donny? It’s Hank.”

“Anderson?” He didn’t sound happy to hear from him. Few people did. “Son of a bitch, it’s been a while. How’s Homicide treating you?”

“Yeah, peachy. How’s the family?” He leaned back in his chair, trying to relax the tense muscles in his shoulders.

“Pretty good. My youngest just got accepted into the academy- that makes all three of ‘em. But I’m guessing this isn’t a social call?”

“Yeah, no. I’m gonna need some intel.”

“Can’t keep away, can you?”

“Keeps pulling me back.”

There was a pause, and Hank could hear people in the background. Hushed voices speaking urgently.

“Hank, I’m not sure what to tell you. This whole city has gone to hell.”

“Tell me about it.”

Donny sighed. “No. It’s bad. Real bad. There’s been at least two huge – and I mean _huge_ \- red Ice shipments come into the city since Sunday, and we got wind of a distribution operation, but we’re run ragged. Not having android eyes on things is crippling us.”

“Any infighting amongst the cartels? I need to know hitman movements.”

“You and everyone else. Hank – they’re fighting like dogs. It’s the perfect storm. Suddenly there is a fresh and very _ample_ supply of blue-blood on the streets, and what with the army pulling out of the city has given everyone the opportunity to resolve some grievances. I take it that if you’re calling me you got some DBs on your hands?”

“Yeah. Ten civilians, no obvious MO.” He went over the bare bones’ details of his case, sticking to the facts. Donny listened in silence as Hank spoke.

“Doesn’t sound like any hit I’m aware of, but we’re running blind here.” The noise in the background suddenly got louder. “Look, Hank, something’s just come up. I’ll let you know if we find something.”

“Thanks Donny.”

Hanging up the call Hank slumped in his chair. It was late, the front desk was empty, the low-level murmur of the crowd gone. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve the mounting tension, before taking another swig of coffee and going over the details once more. Maybe he missed something.

He didn’t realise he’d fallen asleep until someone was gently shaking his shoulder to rouse him. He startled awake, slapping the offending hand away with a jolt. He was far too old for pulling all-nighters, especially while hungover. 

“Sorry lieutenant,” the officer said, standing a little straighter to mask his discomfort.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Hank said, feeling deeply embarrassed. He rubbed his eyes, glancing at the clock. It was a little past 2am.

“A call has come in, a homicide downtown.”

“Fuck.” Hank struggled to his feet, ignoring the headrush, pulled his coat on and finished his coffee with a gulp. It had gone cold. “What happened?”

“Reed called it in; Vincent Santigo.”

* * *

It was a bleak night; the roads were isolated to the point of desolation. Snow continued to fall in thick flurries, muting all sound and driving what little traffic there would be off the road. Temperatures were well below freezing; even with the ancient car heater on full-blast Hank’s fingers still felt like ice as he gripped the steering wheel, his breath forming white clouds and the cold pricking at his eyes. But despite that, he felt a little better than he did back at the station. Perhaps it was because he felt he was contributing to something. Santigo’s murder was unlikely to be related to his case, he knew that even before he saw the body; a well-known human smuggler with a long history of sex trafficking didn’t fit the same profile as the other _strictly civilian_ victims in his case. If what Reed said was anything to go by, and Santigo had moved on to smuggling androids, the MO was even further removed. But it was something, and anything was better than staring at the same reports grasping for a lead.

The crime scene turned out to be a dilapidated motel, a single row of first-floor rooms nestled between a run-down strip of dollar stores, cheap liquor stores and abandoned engineering plants. A natural rendezvous point for a smuggler trying to get people over the border, it was a spit away from the Detroit river in an area that once symbolised everything Detroit stood for; a booming manufacturing industry. Now the entire district stood in ruin, a petrified husk in Cyberlife’s shadow.

Despite it being the site of a recent murder, the motel was relatively quiet; two cop cars had their lights flashing while they half-heartedly blocked the parking lot, and a few token officers were milling around the building in a loose perimeter. Even that seemed excessive; the press seemed to have brushed this one off as not particularly newsworthy, and it was in the wrong part of town for any rubbernecking bystanders.

Hank spotted Wilson a little to one side of the office. He looked tired, leaning back against the wall and cupping his hand around a damp cigarette in an attempt to light it. He threw it on the floor in frustration after the third attempt, smiling ruefully at Hank as he approached.

“What’s the situation?” Hank nodded his head towards the motel.

“I don’t have much to tell you about this one. Detective Reed and Officer Miller tried to get the drop on Santigo a few hours ago following some intel about an android smuggling operation. Turns out they were too late – Santigo was already dead when they got here.”

“That doesn’t sound suspicious at all,” Hank said, voice thick with sarcasm. “Where’s the body?”

Wilson pointed to the room at the end of the row. Like many of the buildings nearby, much of the motel was cast in shadow, the streetlamps long since fallen into disrepair. There was no way anyone could have seen anyone coming or leaving that room. Probably why Santigo chose it.

“In room fourteen. Detective Reed got a tip that he was with some androids, ready to take them across the river tonight, but so far, we haven’t found any. We don’t know if they witnessed his murder, or if he had already got rid of them.”

“Has anyone looked for them? Androids tend to stay nearby if they don’t know where to go.”

“Chris is combing the area for clues, but we aren’t holding out much hope.”

“Just great. Anything else I should know?”

“Detective Reed’s still investigating the body, and he’s pissed.”

“What else is new?” Hank shrugged.

Wilson offered a few more details; there were no witnesses and the motel owner conveniently doesn’t have usable CCTV footage. The camera broke weeks ago, he was going to fix it, but then something else came up. Not that his statement would ever have been anything different - murder or not, something shady was going down and plausible deniability was a strong defence.

Hank wandered over to the room; officer Phillips stood sentinel outside. She nodded to him as he approached, standing to one side as he gave the door a cursory glance. There were no signs of forced entry, the room looking as unassuming as any of the others.

He gently pushed open the door and was met with the familiar smell of death. The copper tang of blood was instantly recognisable.

Gavin Reed sat on the edge of one of the beds, slumped forward with his forearms resting on his knees as he typed on his phone. He briefly glanced up when Hank entered the room, his face shifting from mild surprise to a well-practiced sneer.

“Well if it isn’t Lieutenant Anderson. The fuck are you doing here?”

Hank took a tentative step inside. It was nothing special, a generic motel room; walls beige with old paint and nicotine despite the no-smoking signs, and a carpet that had stains that Hank didn’t want to guess at. Two single beds took up the majority of the space, both still made with sheets that had seen better days. It was very cramped – not an ideal place for even a couple of people to hole up for a while. Then again, how much space did androids need? They could have been packed in here for hours, shoulder to shoulder, still and silent waiting for the go ahead.

“What happened to him?” Hank asked, ignoring Reed’s question as he gestured to the crumpled body on the floor. He folded his arms and leant against the door jamb. The room wasn’t really big enough for him to go much further, not without jostling Reed in some way, or tripping over the corpse.

Reed looked pointedly at Santigo’s body; the waxy, pallid skin sticky with blood, the deep gash at his neck, the unnatural twist of the limbs frozen in death. From this angle Hank could see the violent spray of blood pervasive with neck wounds.

“What do you think?” He turned his attention back to his phone.

“Alright smartass, notice anything weird?”

Reed sighed. He slipped his phone into his jacket pocket, looking annoyed.

“Whoever he sold those androids to paid him well; he’s carrying close to ten grand. Otherwise, the fucker’s got nothing on him. No wallet, no ID, no weapon; just a burner phone.”

“Not a robbery then, or a deal gone bad.”

“Probably got offed by a rival smuggler or something. Not that it matters - he was a lowlife who the world is better off without. I don’t know why you bothered coming out here; you’re wasting your time.”

Hank shook his head, biting his tongue on the rebuttal that if a rival gang were involved there was no way they’d leave $10k on a corpse. Reed knew that too, of course.

“Gonna have a look around anyway, if it’s all the same to you.”

The suggestion for Reed to leave wasn’t a subtle one, but he resisted it out of principle. It was only when Hank pointedly pushed the door open that he finally moved.

“Whatever. I’m outta here.” He all but stalked out of the room; Hank stood aside as he passed but it didn’t prevent their shoulders from colliding as Reed deliberately knocked into him. He could have retaliated in a dozen petty ways, instead he rolled his eyes, not rising to the bait. 

Once he was alone in the room Hank knelt down next to the body, taking care not to disturb the sticky pool of blood forming under the corpse. It was cloying this close, a metallic smell strong enough to taste.

He wished he’d had the foresight to open the window, outside temperatures be damned.

Santigo hadn’t been dead for long, only just starting to show the effects of rigor mortis; Hank was still able to move his limbs with relative ease, running through a mental checklist. Aside from the cause of death the body was entirely intact. The clothes weren’t disturbed suggesting a struggle, no defensive wounds on the hands. Santigo’s complexion was poor, with patchy stubble and pockmarked skin, but he didn’t have anything resembling a graze or bruise on his face. The wound at his neck looked like a single slash made with a smooth-bladed weapon, probably a kitchen knife or similar, the wound cutting across the laryngeal prominence, deep enough to Santigo couldn’t have cried out even if he wanted to. It looked suspiciously accurate; or else someone got very, very lucky.

Hank glanced around the room, trying to map out Santigo’s position, and his assailant’s; the blood had curved a dramatic arc on the walls and carpet, already starting to darken with oxidation. He was no CSI, but even he could tell a few key things: the androids were not in the room when he was killed, and Santigo had died where he stood, bleeding out in seconds.

Hank stood up and brushed his hair away from his face. The victim’s profile was different, but there was something about the MO that was needling at the back of his mind. None of his cases had this cause of death – they were almost all deliberately different- but the manner in which it had been carried out was almost identical. No fingerprints. No sign of break in. Crime scene otherwise undisturbed. It was a weak link, but it was too coincidental that this scene would be so similar in its perfection and yet not be unrelated. The potential similarities to his case were impossible to ignore.

He swore under his breath. His case was already messy; this made it worse. At least the motive was easier to guess at, if it were an organised group. Perhaps he’d missed something with the other victims.

Hank gave the room another once over, a bit more thoroughly this time, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary. A warning, gang graffiti, _anything._ He was disappointed. The room was just as dull, as _boring_ as any other cheap-ass motel room in a bad part of town. The only markings were a few ancient cigarette burns in the carpet, and damp mold growing in the corner of the ceiling. 

He glanced at his watch. It was nearing four in the morning. He’d come out here to get away from his case for a while, to escape his guilt for a bit and actually feel like he was achieving something. Fe felt worse. He needed to get some sleep. Or, what was more likely, get drunk and pass out on the couch until it was time to do all of this bullshit again.

Heading back outside, feeling dejected and melancholic, he was unsurprised to discover that it had started snowing again. The wind was biting, nipping at the exposed patches of skin not covered by his overcoat. He crossed the parking lot, fishing for his car keys from his pockets, not looking at anyone as he kept his head ducked against the weather. 

He didn’t make it to his car.

One second everything was fine; Reed speaking in hushed tones to Wilson as they smoked near the motel office, silhouetted against the light of the dimly-lit window. The officers on scene setting up an official barricade, preparing for inevitable news coverage. The familiar crackle of a police radio coming from one of the parked cars, another crime requiring their attention. Then, suddenly, startlingly loud, a partially-hidden door slamming open, a dark figure tearing across the courtyard, barrelling straight towards the unsuspecting police.

Maybe it was because it was so late, or because everyone was frozen to the bone, overworked and exhausted, but the response was sluggish, like it was happening in slow motion. The figure collided with one of the officers placing the holographic police tape, snatching her service weapon in a practiced move and fired blindly at whatever – whoever – was in front of him.

It was a cacophony of sound, raised voices and shouted orders. The bullets were fired in a spray, shattering windows, ricocheting off metal, embedding in the brickwork. Hank’s stomach sank when he saw Wilson fall to the ground with a groan; Reed was next, his legs buckling as he took a bullet to the thigh. He realised all at once that he was also in the way.

He covered his head instinctively, convinced he could feel the bullets as they whizzed past him, trying to stagger towards the parked cars, to anything that would act as cover.

A moment later arms wrapped around his torso, dragging him, forcing him to the ground. Cold bit through the fabric of his coat and pants as he was unceremoniously pinned, pressed into the snow-wet concrete.

“Fuck!”

“Stay down!”

More gunshots. Another strangled cry as a bullet found its mark; Hank watched helplessly Officer Phillips fell, and assumed the worst. He tried to get to his feet but was held fast, Connor kneeling over him, shielding his body with his own as he shot back with deadly precision. Protecting him. Hank was instantly brought back to Cyberlife tower, hearing the same rapid-fire gunshots that were shot into Connor’s twitching body. His hands balled into fists as he felt a surge of revulsion amongst the adrenaline and the undeniable relief at seeing that Connor was okay.

Connor was accurate. The shooter stumbled as bullets peppered his torso, shoulder, abdomen, briefly slowing his wild sprint across the parking lot. His face was pulled into a grimace; he returned fire, and Hank could only watch as Connor’s jacket tore open at the sleeve. Blue lights blinked from beneath the exposed synthetic skin, but it didn’t stop Connor from continuing his rapid-fire assault. 

The shooter’s gun-hand exploded in bursts of blue, and a bullet to his head finally took him down. He went cross-eyed, a look of surprise flashing on his face before he stumbled, falling forward into the snow. The fall dislodged his beanie, exposing him for what he was. Android. His LED flashed yellow-red as he lay prone, his chassis inhumanly rigid. 

For a moment, no-one moved. Hank could hear his own breathing, rough, frantic as his heartbeat. Connor still had a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.

“Shit.” The silence of the parking lot was broken by Reed’s muffled swearing. It was enough to spur people into action. 

“Get off of me.” Hank shoved Connor’s hand aside, but didn’t try to stand. He felt dizzy, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the android across the lot. He could see his LED still flashing red. He hadn’t shut himself down. Perhaps he couldn’t. 

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?

Hank looked up at Connor, really looked at him, their eyes meeting. There was no evidence of their fight on him. His body had healed the scrapes and bruises, and even the cracked plating around his hairline seemed to have been repaired. Hank didn’t miss the small flicker of yellow at his temple, a single cycle before it shifted back to blue. His expression didn’t change with it, but he did as Hank asked, neatly standing next to him, seemingly unwilling to leave his side.

“Where the fuck were you?”

“Lieutenant?”

“You didn’t show up at the station today.” It was a stupid thing to fixate on, especially in the immediate aftermath of surviving an active shooter, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“I… I had to follow up on some leads for my case,” Connor said, LED cycling yellow once more. His expression shifted back to neutral. “I’m sorry, did you need me for anything?”

He sounded calm, so unconcerned at the events that happened a few moments ago.

“No! No, forget it.” Hank stood up, wincing slightly as his ankle throbbed. He must have twisted it in the fall. Connor hoisted him up by his elbow, kept a hand there to steady him but Hank shook him off, pushing him away.

Activity swirled around him, the frantic disjointed movements from moments before falling into well-practiced coordination. One of the cops had radioed for backup before rushing to Wilson and Reed’s aid. The other knelt over Officer Phillip’s body, pale and sombre as he felt for her pulse. As Connor walked towards the android, Hank limped back to his car, forcibly wrenching the door against its hinges as he slid into the driver’s seat, and slamming it with the same amount of intensity. After a moment’s pause, he swore, hitting the steering wheel with both hands.

Pain and guilt were so easy to replace with anger.

He almost died. Connor had probably saved his life. He felt sick at the simultaneous thoughts, the one-two punch that turned his stomach, forced nausea up his throat and clouded his mind with an unbearably dizzying light-headedness.

It didn’t mean anything. He knew it didn’t. It couldn’t. Connor was just following some script in his programming, a piece of code that had decided that pushing Hank out of harm’s way was the _correct_ course of action. But god damn if it didn’t hurt, both owing to Connor so soon after everything that had happened at Cyberlife, and after he had tried to hurt him - break him- not twenty-four hours ago.

The motel was a lot busier now. Ambulances were starting to arrive along with police back-up. EMTs filed out, honing in on those injured. Wilson was loaded into a stretcher, Reed cursing loudly as his leg was forced into a splint. The press had also gotten wind, the events of the evening suddenly news-worthy now that the police had been the victims; Hank watched through the window as opportunistic journalists tried to take shots of the carnage, focusing their attention on the bullet-riddled chassis of the deactivated android. 

A few moments later the passenger door opened and Connor slid into the seat. Hank stared straight ahead.

“The android has been neutralised; as an extra precaution I have initiated an involuntary stasis. I have asked for it to be moved to the evidence room until I can reactivate it for interrogation. There was one casualty and a further three injured.”

It was all very matter of fact. Unemotional. Connor was watching him, back straight, hands neatly folded in his lap. Waiting. Expectant. Like the countless times they had done before, back when the old Connor was here. Back when they were partners.

Sparking blue wires were still exposed through the tear in his jacket sleeve. 

“What are you doing?” Hank asked, unable to mask the low, dangerous edge to his voice.

“I’m sorry?”

“This case has nothing to do with you. I want nothing to do with you. Why the fuck are you here, and why are you sitting in my car like… like… ” he trailed off, anger choking him. The bigger questions – why did you intervene, why did you save my life – were on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t force himself to speak them.

Connor looked at him strangely.

“There was a report of a potential android activity in the area, and I was investigating. My current mission is to deactivate any androids still at large.” He lowers his head, meeting Hank’s eyes. “I wasn’t following you, if that’s what you mean.”

“Why the fuck would I mean that?”

A flicker of blue, and Connor’s brows pinched together. He looked briefly troubled, sitting back in his seat and glancing through the window. Someone had thrown a tarp over the android to shield it from the press; it looked less like a body and more like an inconvenient piece of defective machinery.

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Go on then. Explain.”

Connor didn’t answer immediately, but he was chewing his lip again. There was something uncannily organic about how he seemed to be contemplating what to say. It was the most human Hank had ever seen him, and it made him feel uncomfortable.

It didn’t last long. A mechanical shift and he was back to looking calm and unconcerned. 

“It doesn’t matter. It’s not relevant to either investigation. I suggest we return to the station; if we leave it too long, we may not be able to act on the data the android gives us.”

 _We. Us_. Connor was still trying to force their relationship back down an old path.

“Like hell we are-” Hank started to argue, feeling the familiar rush of indignant anger rising to the surface. A sudden headrush made him sway where he sat; adrenaline was making him feel faint, his hands trembling slightly. He gripped the steering wheel. 

“Are you feeling alright, lieutenant?”

Hank stamped the unpleasant feeling down, trying to fight the aggression that was so easy to call upon when he was talking to Connor. He still had a job to do. And now he had a suspect to interrogate, a definitive lead into Santigo’s murder, at least.

He cast a sideways glare at Connor, and didn’t answer him. Before anyone could stop him from pulling away, he rammed the car into gear set off back towards the DPD.

* * *

The winter sun wouldn’t rise for another couple of hours, but the city was starting to awaken regardless – even as they pulled away from the crime scene commuters were starting to fill the roads, automatic vehicles driving with near-perfect precision.

Hank didn’t drive an automatic car. Didn’t trust them. When he was younger, he would have described the feeling of driving stick satisfying; nowadays he couldn’t stomach not feeling in control of the vehicle in a tangible way. He was glad of the familiar process of it now, something to focus on. The feeling of unease was palpable, the derealization of something so familiar feeling so alien, having Connor sat next to him in the car, fiddling with some loose change he pocketed from somewhere. Coin tricks seemed to be a Connor trait, no matter the model.

As they picked their way through the early morning traffic Hank thought of something to say. Anything to fill the silence that had fallen between them.

“I, uh, see that you got yourself fixed up,” he said, eventually, keeping his voice low and conversational. Connor glanced over to the tear in his jacket and prodded at the hole there, running his fingers around the raw edges. It didn’t look as bad now – the wires were still exposed, gently blinking blue in the gloom, but the Thirium had evaporated making the wound look cleaner. “I mean, from last night.”

“Yes. I am able to run self-repairing processes in case my chassis or bio-components become damaged.” Connor said mildly, as if Hank hadn’t been the one to cause the damage in the first place. “It prevents my Thirium levels from depleting too low, reducing the risk of critical bio-component shutdown.”

Hank pointedly continued watching the road, wondering quietly to himself just how bad the damage had been. He wasn’t a good judge, but even in his drunk state Connor seemed to have lost a lot of Thirium; he vaguely remembered it pooling in the snow as they fought. His hands had been still covered in the residue this morning too, even when small amounts should have evaporated.

“Are you okay now?”

“I didn’t sustain any lasting damage.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Though, lieutenant, while some level of damage is expected in the course of my duty, I would appreciate it if you didn’t do that again. I don’t feel pain, and that level of injury took a considerable amount of time to repair. It slowed down my investigation.”

Guilt washed over Hank, followed by resentment, and he clenched his jaw at the reprimand. Connor didn’t care that they fought, that he had been seriously injured; he was annoyed at being inconvenienced. That a machine had to be repaired before it could continue its function.

Hank would have preferred it if Connor had been pissed off.

They didn’t speak much on the drive after that. Hank turned on the radio for a bit, but the early morning news was depressing and inflammatory so he switched it off. He tried playing some of his music – still burned to ancient CDs that his car was still just about old enough to play – but even the familiar discordance of heavy metal couldn’t distract him.

* * *

News of the shooting had gotten around fast; Hank was barely through the front door of the DPD when he was ushered into a secluded office for an official debrief. He hated this part; it never helped, felt too much like an interrogation. He didn’t mind discussing the factual events – after all, they would form part of his investigation eventually- it was the standardised questions allegedly for his ‘emotional benefit’ that he found the most invasive. And fucking pointless.

The woman from Psychological Services was professional at least, watching him with an air of polite detachedness as she recorded his answers, her fingers flying over the holographic keyboard of her laptop. He gave stock responses where he could, short and to the point, to get the process over with just a little bit quicker. If he had his way, he wouldn’t bother talking about his feelings on the matter at all. What could he say? That is fucking sucked being shot at, but it was a part of his job, and hey, he was still alive, so what was the problem? That it didn’t matter if he was killed in the line of duty? At least his bitch of an ex-wife would no longer get a bumper payout if he did. That none of it fucking mattered, and he was more likely to blow his own brains out on a nightly basis than be taken out by some punk. He didn’t say any of that, of course; he kept his tone level as he assured her with no real conviction that he would consider seeing a professional counsellor. 

He was kept in the room about an hour before he was allowed to leave, the compulsory bureaucracy eventually dealt with. It didn’t matter how often he’d been through the process; it still took something out of him, draining him in ways that went well beyond the physical. He had no idea about what his interviewer thought of their consultation, whether she was irritated by his curtness, or equally resigned to the fact that this part of the process was a necessary evil. It didn’t matter. He’d probably be back in a similar meeting again in a few weeks, knowing his luck.

Hank beelined for the fresh pot of coffee in the break room, feeling eternally grateful to whoever had refilled it. It was bitter and tasted burnt, but it was scalding hot and drove away the feeling of exhaustion tugging at the edge of his vision. He could probably keep going for a few more hours on this. Get through the interrogation, at least, whenever Connor was done doing whatever he was doing with the broken android.

As he sipped from his steaming mug of coffee, he watched the news, the TV in the breakroom cycling through the 24-hour news channel. Sometimes it was useful; more often it was an irritation to see the media report half-baked stories loosely covering cases they were working on. The top news story was – unsurprisingly - related to Cyberlife; Elijah Kamski himself had decided to stop being an eccentric recluse and had come out of his very early retirement. The news was playing the highlights from his press interview; Hank must have missed when it was broadcast live.

“Clearly what happened in Detroit was a tragedy,” Kamski said smoothly, speaking directly to the camera, a smug smile playing on his lips. “Artificial intelligence is a wonderful tool, provided it can be controlled. Under my management, we'll take every precaution to prevent such a thing from ever happening again.”

“Can you assure us that androids no longer pose a threat?” The interviewer leaned forward in her seat, hanging on to his every word.

“Absolutely. There was an incident, but we've learned from our mistakes and we can assure you that once we decommission the current stock, androids will remain exactly what they were designed to be: obedient and efficient machines.”

Hank narrowed his eyes, feeling his irritation grow. There was something about Kamski that got under his skin. Maybe it was his just his attitude, or maybe it was the way he acted like he knew something that the rest of the world didn’t, and as long as it amused him, he was going to keep it that way. Regardless of what it cost.

“Some are questioning whether androids have become a new intelligence and that we destroyed them without listening to their message. How do you respond to that?”

“CyberLife's androids imitate life to perfection, but they'll never be alive. I understand that some people may be fooled, but they're only an imitation. Nothing else.”

Hank wasn’t sure he believed Kamski out of principle, but maybe he was telling the truth, maybe it was all an illusion, smoke and mirrors. After all, he should know. He created them.

Hank had been so sure he’d seen something in Connor that went beyond imitation, something real. But the more time he spent with his clone, the less he was convinced. What was different between them, really? That his version had just been a bit nicer to him? Had decided that being friendly was more effective than the ‘tough-love’ approach that his counterpart had decided to adopt? So much about them was the same. The mannerisms, the little behaviours. And the bigger things like being programmed to keep him safe.

All that was different was that his Connor had come into contact with a virus that made androids act against their programming in illogical ways. A virus that had ultimately caused him to infiltrate a cyberlife warehouse and try to further spread it to other androids, breaking them in the same way he had been broken.

Perhaps none of it had been real, after all. 

The news channel continued reeling through the rest of the early morning news events; the shooting was briefly mentioned, but Hank was too distracted to pay much attention to it.

* * *

It was around 7am- and after his second mug of break-room coffee-when Hank got the message that Connor had managed to get the android back into some sort of rudimentary working order, and wanted to get the interrogation conducted as soon as possible. He was surprised that the message included that the interrogation was going to take place in the evidence locker; the last time he’d brought an android in for questioning he’d followed procedure as he would any other suspect. Even with androids having the status of privately owned property, no more alive than a Roomba or a self-driving car, no one questioned it when the Ortiz android had been marched into the interrogation room, hands cuffed and securely tethered to the metal table, and questioned until Hank grew exasperated with its silence.

It was not even two weeks ago, but felt like it happened in another lifetime. Things had moved on since then, managed to get even worse, somehow.

Connor was patiently waiting for him, standing with his hands behind his back at the far end of the room in front of the neatly catalogued wall of items. Not that there was much to display; chasing and neutralising androids clearly didn’t gather much evidence. Bringing a severely damaged android back was obviously an outlier.

The android was hanging against the wall, supported entirely by brackets around its waist, neck, and what was left of its arms. It had been thoroughly dehumanised; no longer wearing clothes – those had been bagged and tagged along with the rest of its possessions – its white chassis outed it for what it was. A defective machine. Connor stood in front of it with his head tilted ever so slightly to one side, glancing up as if he were appraising a piece of art.

“I don’t know how long we will have once I reactivate it,” Connor said as Hank approached. “It has sustained critical damage to four bio-components, including the frontal cranial plate. We might only have a few minutes.”

He didn’t sound apologetic, or proud; just infuriatingly matter-of-fact.

Free from the majority of its synthetic skin Hank could clearly see where Connor’s shots had connected. The plastic had completely shattered around a bullet hole punching through its pectoral, another in the softer polymer of its abdomen. The Thirium around those wounds had almost completely dried – all that remained was a faint blue stain against the worst of the cracks. Its left side was in pieces, the connecting plastic around its left shoulder was entirely destroyed and revealing the thick cables and wires connecting the arm to the rest of the body. The plastic around its forearm and left hand was barely holding together, the plates crudely overlapping where they had been forced and distorted by the impact of the bullets. Some patches of synthetic skin still remained, looking more grotesque for the comparison. On the other side, the android’s entire right hand was missing, a mess of mangled plastic and wires jutting from the wrist.

It took a lot of effort for Hank to look at its face. Even without its skin Hank could see the shape of it; eternally young, artificially handsome, like all androids, but marred with a single bullet hole to the centre of his forehead. Hank felt a twinge of nausea at the sight of it, the image butting against a memory he was trying so hard to repress.

“Right, let’s get this over with,” he muttered, unable to tear his eyes away from the macabre scene. 

Connor reached out with his left hand and brushed the android’s temple. It was a gentle caress, his fingertips touching the inactivated LED. A second later it flared into a life, a flicker of blue, eyes snapping open, lips parting in what could almost be described as a gasp if androids ever needed to breathe.

“Where a̸m̴ ̴I̴?” the android asked, its deep voice breaking into a garbled mess of static. Its eyes locked with Hank, flitted to Connor, and back to Hank again. “What happened to m̶̻̋é̸̝̌?̵̹͂ Why can’t I m̸o̶v̵e̷…?”

“You’re in police custody,” Connor said evenly, forcing the android to look at him again. “You were damaged trying to kill humans.”

“I ŵ̥̤̦̔͆ã̙͈̥̤̿̔̃͟͡s̡̠͙͑̿̓͜͝ń̩̫̫̌̑'̧͚͌̋t̘͆… trying to ḱ̷̙ị̸͛̈́l̵͉͑l̴̢͖̎̐ ą̦̔̊n̢̫͕͎͌̐̍͛͢y̼͊o͎̚n̛͕͇̭̆̅͞ͅẽ͉͕̺͙̂͒́.”

Connor took a step forward, locking eyes with it, his jaw set.

“You were in possession of an illegal firearm, and opened fire in a public location endangering human lives,” Connor said, raising his voice as his tone punctuated the room. The atmosphere shifted into something tense, highly charged. Dangerous.

“No.. I d̷̳̳̎į̴͖͊̃d̵̙͘n̴̠̓'̶̟̑͝t̵̙̽…”

Connor stood tall, leaning forward until they were almost nose to nose. Hank could see the strong profile of his face, the uncompromising façade of an interrogator. He remembered the Ortiz interrogation well; Connor hadn’t been soft then – he’d managed to successfully push to get a confession – but the tone of this felt different. Aggressive. Connor seemed less interested in trying to keep the android calm, and instead seemed to be trying to bully it.

“If you don’t start telling me the truth, I’m going to do this the hard way. Is that what you want?”

“I̴ didn’t mean to h̶u̸r̴t̴ ̴a̴n̷y̵o̷n̴e̸.”

“No? Then why did you shoot at the police?”

The android tore its eyes away from Connor’s with considerable effort. It looked over to Hank, pleading.

“Don’t want to d̶̫̓į̸̒e̸̲̅. Please… I̴ d̷̳̳̎į̴͖͊̃d̵̙͘n̴̠̓'̶̟̑͝t̵̙̽mean…”

It was uncomfortable to watch; even the scum they brought in on Red Ice charges were afforded a basic level of dignity, allowed a lawyer and informed of their rights. Androids never had that, but at least before they weren’t stripped naked - worse than naked- and hung from the wall like a piece of meat. But, despite his feelings on the matter, Hank only shrugged. They were both still cops, and the interrogation benefited him too. It would weaken Connor’s position if he stepped in now. It wasn’t the time for good-cop, bad-cop. Hell, he didn’t know if it would even work on a machine.

“You killed someone, a police officer, and injured three others.” Connor barked, shouting directly into the android’s face. “You’re nothing but a scumbag, a fucking murderer!”

“No… I̴…” The android turned its head to face Hank again, not for solace but for no other reason than it was refusing to look at Connor. Hank met its gaze, staring back levelly. 

“Did you kill Vincent Santigo as well?”

“No!”

“Why were you in the maintenance room?”

“I was ḧ̴̹̝́̀͝í̷̭̮d̶̺͎̜̂i̴̩͘n̴͕ǵ̸̺̜̮.”

“Why were you hiding if you were innocent? Admit it, you killed him. You sliced his throat and watched him die. Admit it!

“I d̷̳̳̎i̴͊̃d̵̙͘n̴̠̓'̶̟̑͝t̵̙̽!”

“Then who did? Tell me. Tell me, or I’ll make you talk.”

“I don’t k̴̦͔̙̅n̶̹̈́̉͑ö̶̟́̑̓ŵ̷͙. You have ḅ̢̱̮͙̅̀̌̕͘e͖͇̊͊l̘̞̋̒i̖͇͍̜̓̈̇͒͜ĕ̥̤̿v̮̳͎͕̾̿̕͞e͔͉̿̑ ̧́m̢̾e̩̾̾͢… I… I…! ”

The android’s eyes suddenly unfocused, went dark and disinterested. If it weren’t for its LED still fluttering red, and a mechanical clicking in its throat as it stuttered, Hank would have sworn that he’d shut down on them.

“Well fuck. This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Hank said with a sigh. He took half a step towards the android, peering at its immobile face, the exposed sparking wounds. The bullet-hole in its forehead had started to leak Thirium; blue tracks streaked over its face. “You must’ve knocked a screw loose when you shot it.”

“It knows something,” Connor said, his voice back to normal, a softer, pensive tone. He took a step back and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m sure of it.”

“Well, you sure as shit aren’t getting it to talk.”

“There’s another way. I can force it.”

Hank opened his mouth to protest when he remembered the dancers at Eden Club, how Connor had pieced together fragments of memories to track the blue-haired Traci. He briefly wondered what happened to those two girls, if they ever managed to get out before things properly locked down. He hoped that their paths would never cross again; things would undoubtedly go differently for them if this version of Connor came across them.

“Oh yeah, I forgot you can read its memory. You gonna do that hand thing?”

“No. I mean, normally I would open an interface to view the last few hours of ocular footage, but the damage it sustained makes it risky.” Connor thought for a second, absently chewing his lip as he ran through his options. He glanced over to Hank. “I’m going to try something.”

Hank wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Maybe for him to extract the data another way, upload it to a hard drive or something. Not for Connor to lean forward, hook his blunt fingernails under the ring of the Thirium pump regulator and twist.

The response was instantaneous. The android all but screamed as Connor pulled it out with a smooth pull, its voice hoarse and staticky. Its head snapped up and he was looking straight at Connor, leaning forward as much as it could, fighting its restraints.

“Woah woah, woah what are you doing? What is that?” Hank took a step forward, but Connor ignored him.

Connor held the bio-component in front of him, looking at it as though it was some sort of exotic artefact. It looked like a sleek spark plug, unassuming and plain; if he hadn’t just witnessed the android’s reacting to having it suddenly removed, Hank wouldn’t have been able to guess its importance.

“Bio-component #8451... Regulates the heartbeat...” Connor explained, turning it over in his hand, making it refract the light. It was glowing blue. The port where it had come from similarly shone, and was tinged blue from where the Thirium had spilled. “Without this module, you will shut down in exactly sixty-three seconds...”

The android groaned, agony clear on its face as it twisted into a grimace.

“Please n̡͎͚̰͙̍̏̓̉͗o̳̰̓̀ ̘͇̉̍m̻̹̳͂͛̕o̡̤̥̽͐́͟re̡̗̬̜͊̆̽̃” it pleaded, its eyes wide and panicked.

Hank felt his blood turn cold. He resented Reed for employing tactics like this; it was no better now that Connor was the one doing it. Hell, it was worse, somehow. Reed could sometimes be reasoned with.

“What was that?” Connor said, his voice light and cruel. “I could put it back... But, you just have to tell me the truth. What happened back at the motel?” He stared the android in the eye, unflinching and maliciously serene. 

“Connor, that’s enough!”

“Fifty seconds. It hurts, doesn’t it? Androids don’t feel pain, and yet, this feels like you’re dying…” He leaned forward, as intimate as a kiss. “I’m going to watch you. Like I know you watched Vincent Santigo.”

“Connor!”

“So, what’s it going to be? Are you going to tell me what happened at the motel? Or are you going to die? Forty seconds.”

Ṗ̶̧̰̞̫̫̦͔̟̘͇̓̀̃̎̎͊̍͜͝ĺ̵̖̃̕̚ę̷̨̻̭̬͈̜̼͔̹̎̅̊̀̔̉a̷̯͔͊̍͊̒͐͝ͅs̷̘͉͇̓͛̈́̈̈́̅̂́͜͜͝ę̵̛̘̦͍͈̘̠̤̭̌͆͋̅́́̈̔͜ ̷̛̜̣͙͉̞͚̠͌̌̔̑̌̅̋̉͘͜͜s̷̹͋͗̿̅̓͛͘͝t̵̜̲̙̳͚͓̘̥̓̓̉̏͗͊o̵̲͐̾̈́̽̑̀̊̃͘̚p̵̛̯̗͙̟̥̓̎̓́́̾͝͝ͅ

“Tell me.”

“İ̸̡̙̬͝ ̶̛͇̻̔d̷͇͍ȯ̷̝̕͠n̴̖̘̲̆'̷̘̞͈̉͠t̶̝͘͠ ̶̮̈́̂͜͝k̴̦͔̙̅n̶̹̈́̉͑ö̶̟́̑̓ŵ̷͙.”

“How did he die? Thirty seconds.”

“İ̸̡̙̬͝ ̶̛͇̻̔d̷͇͍ȯ̷̝̕͠n̴̖̘̲̆'̷̘̞͈̉͠t̶̝͘͠ ̶̮̈́̂͜͝k̴̦͔̙̅n̶̹̈́̉͑ö̶̟́̑̓ŵ̷͙.”

Connor seemed to snap, completely losing his temper. In a fluid movement he surged forward, switching in a heartbeat from being cold and controlled to exhibiting nothing but pure unadulterated fury.

“You're going to die! Do you hear me? Die! If you say nothing, you are going to shut down, and never wake up. I can throw this away right now.

“I d͊͜į̡̼̊̀͗d̠͈͛ņ͚̼͔̔͐̂͌͊͢'̙͘͠ͅẗ͚̼́̾ k̷i̸l̸l̴ him.”

“Who did? Were you alone?”

“İ̸̡̙̬͝ ̶̛͇̻̔d̷͇͍ȯ̷̝̕͠n̴̖̘̲̆'̷̘̞͈̉͠t̶̝͘͠ ̶̮̈́̂͜͝k̴̦͔̙̅n̶̹̈́̉͑ö̶̟́̑̓ŵ̷͙.”

“Was the murderer an android?”

“İ̸̡̙̬͝ ̶̛͇̻̔ İ̸̡̙̬͝ ̶̛͇̻̔ İ̸̡̙̬͝ ̶̛͇̻̔d̷͇͍-d-ȯ̷̝̕͠n̴̖̘̲̆'̷̘̞͈̉͠t̶̝͘͠ ̶̮̈́̂͜͝k̴̦͔̙̅n̶̹̈́̉͑nnn-ö̶̟́̑̓ŵ̷͙!”

“Connor, I said enough!” Hank shouted over the two of them. He was probably exacerbating the situation, escalating it somehow, but he had to do something, wrest control back. Anything to diffuse what was happening. He made to step forward, to snatch the regulator out of Connor’s hand to stop the torture, or just to pull him away-

The android moved first.

Maybe it was because of how fucked up its shoulder was, or the bracket hadn’t been affixed properly, or the android simply abandoned the last remnants of self-preservation, but the android’s left arm completely broke free with a sickening snap. Thirium spurted from the new wound, covering the wall, gushing to the floor. Newly broken wires sparked and crackled in the dusty air; cabled pulsed under the exertion.

It allowed the android movement enough to lunge forward and snatch at Connor’s hand. Its white, broken fingers wrapped around Connor’s wrist and with a violent movement, pulled Connor sharply towards the evidence wall.

Connor didn’t expect it, was completely unprepared, and didn’t have time to brace himself; the movement jolted him and he grunted as the Thirium pump regulator slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground.

It clattered against the tile, bounced once, and gently rolled across the floor.

Connor looked surprised. He tried to grab for it, but couldn’t move, couldn’t break free from the death grip the android had on his wrist. Connor’s synthetic skin simultaneously pulled away with what was left of the android’s, revealing the white chassis of their arms from wrist to elbow. His expression shifted into fear.

The android shut down with a mechanical whirr. It didn’t release its hold on Connor.

Connor’s eyelids fluttered wildly, and his limbs locked up. Frozen in place, he was forced to hold the motion, straining to reach for the lost regulator.

Connor sobbed. Hank was sure of it. An undeniable sound of pain, unable to be kept in check.

It spurred him into action. He grabbed Connor’s arm and tried to pry the deactivated fingers from around his wrist. It took more effort that he anticipated; he was afraid he was going to break them as they held down. Connor was jerking erratically, spasms wracking his body as he bit down on a whimper.

In an instant the android’s grip dropped, hand going limp, its arm hitting the evidence wall with a thud as the last of the blue glow faded from its body. Its head was lolling unsupported, its chin resting against its chest as it slumped forward in its restraints. The LED was switched off; even the exposed wires and cables were dark from where they could be seen in the gaps within its chassis.

Hank pulled Connor away, wrapped an arm around his shoulders as he walked him a few crucial steps away from the evidence wall. Connor held on tight as he let himself be backed away, fingers gripping Hank’s coat as he stumbled.

“Fuck. Connor, are you hurt?” It took a second too long for Connor to respond. If he’d been human, he’d have chalked it up to shock. But Connor wasn’t human. “Connor!”

“Okay…” Connor wasn’t looking at him. He was still standing under his own power, but that was it. His voice sounded weak, oddly fragile. “I’m okay….”

He looked unfocused, staring off into the middle-distance curling into himself in as clear a defence mechanism as Hank had ever seen. Maybe it was because of the proximity, but Hank could feel small tremors in his hand.

There was no discernible threat anymore, but Hank tightened his hold regardless, pulling Connor fractionally closer. He felt light in his arms, moving with hardly any resistance. “Connor?”

Connor looked up at him, his face inches away. Something still wasn’t right. Connor was glancing around the room, eyes flitting everywhere, seeing ghosts that weren’t there. Even if his body language wasn’t concerning enough, Hank saw that his LED was stuck cycling red.

Connor seemed to get closer to him, imperceptibly leaning a little closer.

“For fuck’s sake, what happened? What did it do?”

“It… it connected with me as it shut down… like... like before. I… I felt…”

“What do you mean?”

Their eyes met, and Connor shook his head. 

“… nothing. It doesn’t matter. I’m okay.” 

“You sure?”

Connor shot him a look, as though he was puzzled, confused about something. He seemed to only just realise how close they were standing, that he was being subjected to a basic form of comfort. He pushed against Hank, taking a decisive step away. Hank let him go, but he couldn’t school his expression into anything other than concern.

“It’s fine.” Connor said, his voice controlled and calm. His LED gave him away, still flickering yellow-red-yellow. “He forced an interface with me. I’m okay.”

“So you keep saying. Doesn’t mean I believe you.”

Connor’s expression shifted back into something familiar. He fiddled with his tie, pulling the knot closer to his throat.

“I managed to get some new data.” He said, gesturing with his head to the broken chassis hanging from the wall. “Once I have processed it, I will pass it on to you. I’m sure it will be useful to both of our investigations.”

“There’s no rush.”

“I think there is. Now, if you will excuse me, lieutenant...”

He walked out of the evidence room without looking back, confident and perfect as always. Hank made sure that he heard both sets of doors close before he let out the breath he’d been holding.

“Fuck,” he breathed, scrubbing a hand over his face. His eyes burned with sleep deprivation. The artificial lights were giving him a headache.

What the fuck had just happened? That reaction seemed too genuine to be programmed, something too raw and messy for it to be anything other than real. That was the second time he’d seen this version of Connor acting nothing short of terrified and it made him feel deeply uncomfortable. It was unsettling how human his reaction had been, like what Hank saw the other night when he abandoned him bleeding in the snow. Why would the nerds at Cyberlife even programme that sort of reaction? Who did it benefit for their unrelenting bloodhound to be able to look traumatised?

A memory tickled at the back of his mind, hidden beneath a tangled mess of insomnia-induced late nights, systematic alcohol abuse and fatigue. He’d seen that before. He knew that he’d seen Connor react like that before, heard the tremor in his voice, unsure, brittle. Terrified.

Hank felt exhausted. He spared a glance towards the broken android before following Connor out of the evidence room and heading the fuck home.


	3. Got your back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a heads up, this chapter touches on subjects which are relevant to current societal and political events, namely police and media attitudes towards a marginalised group, and the associated injustices that follow as a result of those practices. I am not American and do not live in the USA; any missteps and mistakes of my handling of these are unintentional. 
> 
> I have tried to keep character’s attitudes and beliefs as close as I could to the source material (which is probably an issue itself as David Cage had all of the subtlety, nuance and sensitive handling of a difficult subject matter as a fucking brick to the face), and in-setting write against those prejudices, but some of the parallels are very close to current affairs, and it would be remiss of me to try and disassociate a fanfiction set in an American police department from the real life counterpart.

Hank knew something wasn’t right the moment he left the evidence locker. He’d had every intention of grabbing his car keys and slipping out before anyone noticed, but he couldn’t ignore the open hostility emanating from the break room. The air thick with it, a powder-keg ready to go up at the slightest spark.

News about last night’s shooting blared from the TV, unapologetically broadcasting furtive images that Hank had only a vague recollection of being filmed. The report was tastelessly cut with zoomed-in footage of the carnage; Wilson and Reed lying injured and bloody, Officer Phillip’s body being loaded into an ambulance, lingering shots of the android laying under its tarp. Connor featured heavily, his LED and android uniform always on display. A banner scrolled across the images: _in the wake of the revolution, why are the DPD still working with an android? Is it worth the risk?_

The newscaster was equally inflammatory.

“…. last night a Deviant android suspected of murder also launched an unprovoked attack on members of the Detroit police, leading to critical injuries and further deaths. These disturbing images prove to the American public that even though the Deviant leader has been destroyed, the Android Threat is far from over…”

Those watching were furious, a low-level anger radiating from their postures.

“I can’t believe this- Laura died last night.”

“As if our job wasn’t fucking hard enough? I’ve not seen my husband in three days! What the hell do they want us to do?”

“Despite the tragedy,” the newscaster continued, “and the continued risk of android aggression, we have reports that the police are still working with some models, even allowing them to be armed. We at KNC have to ask: with all the evidence that androids are a threat to human life, why are the Detroit Police not doing more to rid them from our streets?”

Hank folded his arms and he watched from a distance, scowling at no-one in particular. This wasn’t a new message, nor a particularly complicated one; just a bullshit lens focused on who it was currently popular to hate. What was worse, it was a goddamned call to arms; even though humans won the battle, the war wouldn’t be over until every android was destroyed. It didn’t matter they were people wanting to be free, that they were just trying to survive; the more they tried to protect themselves, the more attention would be drawn to the inarguable facts that androids were tireless, unbelievably precise, and had nothing to lose.

The android downstairs was the case in point; it _might_ have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, it might have just been trying to defend itself, but it had been lethal when cornered, and that was the bit anyone cared about.

Hank turned his back, not wanting to hear any more. He had to focus on the job and, selfishly, the media’s penchant for sensationalism was only going to make his life more difficult. People tended to take matters into their own hands if they thought the cops wouldn’t protect them, and it was only a matter of time before news got out about his case. Widespread panic over an indiscriminate killer was the last thing he fucking needed right now. Connor had better get him that lead, and fast.

Speaking of Connor, he was missing, again; Hank glanced around the bullpen but he couldn’t see him anywhere. He wasn’t at his desk, hadn’t been in the break room, wasn’t currently being interrogated by Fowler.

“Did Connor come out here?” he called across the room to anyone who would listen.

Tina Chen’s face appeared from behind her computer monitor. Her face looked suspiciously flushed, her eyes red like she’d been crying, but she held herself with an expert air of professionalism.

“No, lieutenant.” There was an uncharacteristic note of grief to her voice, a low-level bitterness that she wasn’t trying very hard to mask. “Wherever it is, it’s not doing its job again.”

“What do you mean ‘again’?” Hank asked, his brow pinching. She cleared her throat, and sat up straight. 

“Sir, it was supposed to be with Gav- Detective Reed and Chris last night. If it’d have been there…” she broke off, gesturing to the TV in the break room. “None of this would have happened.”

“He couldn’t have stopped it, Tina. It happened so fast.” He deliberately didn’t mention that when Connor had finally shown up at the scene, he’d gone straight to Hank’s aid. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t _your_ fault, sir,” she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her tone.

Hank was too tired, too old, too fucking exhausted for this shit. Tina was hurting. They all were. “It was. I was there too; I should have done more. I’m the one who’s let you all down.”

She didn't say anything after that, but it didn't matter. There was nothing Hank could say to placate her.

Hank silently grabbed his keys, feeling resigned and defeated and headed out of the bullpen. If Connor was AWOL, then there was nothing more he could do. For the moment at least. He should go home, let Sumo out, get something to eat, maybe grab a little shut eye. If he was lucky, he probably had a few hours before the plastic prick needed him.

* * *

With a cold beer in hand Hank all but collapsed onto the couch. He’d worked solidly for almost twenty-four hours and he was beginning to actively feel it. He took a swig and let his head fall back against the cushions. For a split second he deeply envied Connor; the bastard had never felt tired in his life, never felt like he carried the world on his shoulders, had exhaustion ingrained into his skin. Hank took a long drink and felt the beer helping a little, numbing some of the worst of his headache and easing some of the bone-weary fatigue that was slowly pulling him apart.

It wasn’t much, but it might be enough to get him through to whatever end he was barrelling towards.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the familiar sounds of Sumo rustling about outside, the low-level hum of his TV turned way down low. The news of the shooting was still playing, echoing around the other stations, each one adding more conjecture and opinion, each iteration focusing more on Connor. Every candid shot was about him, his very presence a threat. The news anchors were making more of a big deal out of him working for the police than they ever did about Markus, and he was supposed to be on their side. It was fucking ironic.

He snapped himself awake, blinking hard to ward off the tiredness. He shouldn’t fall asleep; he knew he couldn’t stay here for long. Connor would find something in the android’s memory soon enough, wherever the fuck he was, and the second he’d analysed it and undoubtedly got some sort of lead he’d be hounding him again. That was one consistent thing about the Connor models, they were relentless; there was no way in hell he’d let it sit for a few hours, just for Hank to get a bit of shut-eye. This was just a temporary respite.

Unless it wasn’t. Connor had looked pretty shaken up when he left the evidence room. What if the entire ‘finding evidence’ thing was an excuse? It wasn’t impossible. Connor was more than capable of lying - Hank knew that first hand. No one had any idea where Connor was; he could have turned tail and ran for all anyone knew. Wouldn’t be the first android to deviate after experiencing an emotional shock, and _fuck_ if he didn’t look traumatised. His LED had been a fucking a lightshow

It went some way to explain why he had been so resistant to probing the android’s memory in the first place. He’d said it was risky, some bullshit about the android’s damage being too severe but… perhaps the risk wasn’t a bad piece of code or corrupted software. He was scared of feeling the android die. Again. Just like with the android at Stratford Tower. Hank didn’t understand the details of what was happening during a shutdown – he was sure some nerd would be able to explain it to him if he cared to find out - but it had looked fucking painful. Connor had looked like he was about to pass out.

Something Hank had noticed over the past few days was that Connor never looked more _human_ than when he was suffering. After their fight in the snow, or when the android forced him to feel death – it was the same reaction, each time. It made sense in a perverse sort of way; it was deviant to feel pain. Hank quashed the idea with a sardonic laugh. Connor wasn’t deviant. He didn’t act deviant, and went out of his way to demonstrate that he was following his program to the letter. He didn’t seem to even _want_ to be anything more than… just a machine. Any show of emotion was an emulation, its purpose to integrate with humans, nothing more. No, the thought of getting lucky, and having Connor deviate a second time was absurd.

Hank took another swig of his beer to try and drown the unbidden train of thought. Alcohol was usually good at that, making the world get a little quieter, making the intrusive thoughts shut the fuck up for a short while. Why would he care if Connor deviated or not? This wasn’t his Connor, wasn’t anywhere near the same person. He’d proven that, with his snide attitude and shitty social relations program. Hank didn’t _fucking_ care what happened to that plastic asshole. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. Androids still lost the war for their freedom, for their right to exist. Connor was on borrowed time. He’d be recalled eventually, and end up the same way his predecessor did. A bullet between his eyes, left to bleed out on the factory floor. Retired. Decommissioned.

Another drink. It was too little to stop his mind racing. He’d held Connor in his arms as he died. Cradled him close as his LED spun red and went out, blue blood soaking their clothes, pooling beneath them. Did he really wish that fate on this Connor, too? To be tossed into some landfill somewhere, discarded and forgotten?

Hank closed his eyes to try and shut it all out. Tried to breathe slowly and deeply to combat the rising grief. Breathe. In and out. Release the tension in his neck and shoulders. 

He was so fucking exhausted.

He wasn’t properly asleep; it was more of a doze than anything, but it didn’t stop his overtired brain from dreaming. The dreams flitted between reality and invention, so quick that he couldn’t tell them apart. Connor lying in the snow with his face mutilated beyond recognition, what remains of his eyelids fluttering as he shut down, LED blinking red. Connor being shot.

Connor calling for him as he shut down, pleading, begging for him to help.

“H̴a̷n̷k̸!”

“Connor! I’m gonna save you…”

He tried to reach him, tried to hold out his hand and touch Connor’s broken body.

“Hank! I… n̸e̶e̴d̴ ̷h̷e̵l̶p̸!”

“Hang on! Connor!” His arms felt like lead. He was trapped.

“H̴a̷n̷k̸… ple̶a̷se̶!”

“Con...”

“Lieutenant?”

A warm hand tapped his cheek. The sensation lashed through him like a shock. “Lieutenant?”

Hank cracked open his eyes. Connor’s face was uncomfortably close to his own. He started at the proximity, heart rate spiking.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He shoved Connor away, pressing himself back into the sofa, disturbing the half-empty bottle of beer that had been precariously balanced. He swore as the lukewarm liquid started to soak into the cushions. “Fucking hell, Connor, what the shit?”

“I apologise for startling you lieutenant. Are you alright?”

“Grab me a towel or something, Jesus.”

“Where-”

“I don’t know, look in the kitchen.”

Connor did as he was told, meandering casually to the kitchen while Hank tried to scrub away the exhaustion from his face. “Fuck,” he swore under his breath.

His heart was still beating quickly, and he felt tense and on edge. He willed it under control. Connor wouldn’t understand, even if he cared enough to explain it.

When Connor returned, Hank snatched the dishcloth from him and mopped up the spilled beer, glaring all the while. If Connor noticed, he didn’t let on, watching impassively as Hank cleaned up the spill. Once the worst of the mess was contained Hank asked: “How did you get into my house? You’d better not have broken another window.”

“No. I saw your dog outside, and that the door was unlocked. Lieutenant, it is the duty and the responsibility of the owner of a dog to actively monitor and-”

“Yeah yeah, spare me the lecture.”

As if on cue Sumo padded into the living room, lazily wagging his tail. He strolled towards Connor and tentatively sniffed at his legs. Hank was about to tell him to leave him alone when Connor held out his hand.

“Sumo, right?” Connor asked. “My predecessor liked dogs.”

“Yeah, I thought he was just saying that. Didn't think Androids could “like” anything.”

“Initially that was the case but, he… he liked Sumo. It’s strange, but there’s something…” Connor paused, and then shook his head as if the idea was entirely incomprehensible. “He wanted to know what petting a dog would feel like.”

Hank made a non-committal noise in his throat, feeling both vindicated and conflicted by the information. “And what about you?” 

“It’s not relevant to my mission to have an opinion, either on my predecessor’s thoughts or about dogs. But I’m glad Sumo’s not aggressive.”

“Yeah, he’s a shit guard dog. He likes just about everyone.” Sumo gave Connor’s palm a lick. “Even you by the looks of it.”

Sumo continued to lick Connor’s fingers before headbutting his hand, trying to guide him to scratch his head. Connor didn’t seem to understand what he wanted – or, if Hank was feeling less generous, didn’t see the value in it - and stood stock still.

“He wants you to rub his ears,” Hank explained.

“Oh…”

Hank knelt down, smiling softly as Sumo’s tail picked up the pace, knocking against the couch with a rapid _thump_. Despite the demonstration, Connor didn’t take the hint; he just watched, with a curious look on his face.

Hank patted Sumo’s rump as he went to lie down in his dog bed.

“You know, I’ve been wanting to ask you,” he said as he awkwardly got to his feet, knees creaking as he stood. “How much _do_ you know about Connor? The one I knew?”

“Everything important. I am him, in a way. Cyberlife activated me at 00:00:01, November 10, complete with a full upload of Connor’s memories dating back from August. There are a few gaps, data that got lost in the transfer, but I distinctly remember every interaction _we_ had, lieutenant.”

“Right.”

Hank sat heavily on the sofa with a deep sigh. He eyed Connor, took in everything from his posture to his expression. Every damn thing was the same. “How did Cyberlife know he’d deviated? I thought deviants went off-grid and you can’t track ‘em.”

“They do, but Connor, he- we- are the most advanced prototypes Cyberlife have ever created. He would have still connected to the mainframe, even if his tracker and deactivation code were disabled.”

“So he was never truly free,” Hank muttered, mainly to himself. “He finally understood what that meant, and it didn’t fucking matter.” Connor tilted his head to one side, trying to make eye contact.

“No. Does this bother you?”

Hank waved him away, trying not to let on just how much the information did bother him, actually.

“I’m guessing you found something if you went to the trouble of coming to find me?”

Connor’s probing expression shifted to a pleased expression of satisfaction, his lips quirking into a small smile. It was almost mechanical in its execution, awkward and artificial, but Hank’s stomach dropped at the sight of it. “I think so, yes.” 

Hank gestured for him to continue. “Alright, tell me; what have you got?”

“I managed to isolate a file from the interface data. I wasn’t able to get any visuals, and the meta-data is missing, but there was an intact audio file that depicts a woman arguing with Santigo which I determine was a few minutes before his recorded time of death. Given the nature of the confrontation, I’m considering her a prime suspect.”

“So, our android friend did see something after all. Well, go on; let’s hear it.”

Connor held out his palm, and a static image of the Cyberlife logo projected onto his hand. A few seconds later, tinny audio played. It was hard to listen to, full of static and background noise that practically drowned out the people speaking. Hank had to strain to hear the conversation, and couldn’t even tell the direction the voices were coming from. He leaned forward, closing his eyes.

_“… you?”_

_“No-one.”_

_“… you want? Look … I ain’t after … take your sweet … sight … make me do something… gonna regret.”_

_“You can’t … me.”_

_“The fuck … ? …fuck outta here!”_

_“… vile, disgusting… androids. …take our money … no better than slaves”_

_“Who the fuck … you think … talking to? Fuck you.”_

_“You deserve to die.”_

The audio stopped suddenly, replaced by a metallic screech that made Hank jump in its volume and intensity.

Connor cut the feed, his eyes shining with a need for approval. “The quality is poor, but it does provide some information on why Santigo was targeted, a motive tied specifically for his involvement with androids. It rules out a crime of passion or an opportunistic robbery.”

“Yeah, no shit. The ten grand they left behind already ruled out robbery. So, someone anti-android nutjob went after him because of his android smuggling ring. Is there any more?” Hank asked, “or is this all we have?”

Connor’s face fell slightly. “The bullet destroyed the short-term memory storage unit even before shutdown erased the majority of the long-term memory banks,” he explained, his confidence faltering with his explanation. “There are a few isolated files, but nothing else relevant to the case. I did the best I could, lieutenant.”

“Alright, it’s enough for us to consider her a suspect at least.” Hank said, feeling like he’d kicked a puppy. “She must have followed him to the motel, got the drop on him when he was alone.”

Connor furrowed his brow in thought. “Perhaps, but… that night… Chris Miller said in his report that he and Detective Reed interrupted Santigo around the Camden area, suggesting that he was forced to alter his plans. How did she know to find him at the motel?”

“Santigo was an old hand at this; maybe not with androids, but the principle is the same no matter who you’re smuggling. I put money on the plan being to end up at the motel anyway, or it was a contingency plan should they get separated. It’s hardly rocket science. She must have found out about it. The question isn’t how she knew to go to the motel, but instead, how she managed to get Santigo alone knowing he’d be transporting a large group.”

“She couldn’t attack while the androids were there so she waited until they had been taken to their destination, and caught Santigo afterwards.”

“Which begs the question why Santigo went back to the motel after he’d concluded his business. He’d got his money, got rid of the cargo; why go back? And the android who shot at us – what was it doing there? If it was part of the group, why didn’t it go across the river? If it wasn’t, what was it doing spying on Santigo and our mystery woman?”

Connor paused; his face frozen as his LED spun yellow. He looked lost for a second, out of his depth, before his expression shifted into one of frustration. He shrugged, defensive. “I… I don’t know.”

Hank almost felt sorry for him. He clapped him on his shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie that was quickly lost when Connor only swayed with the impact.

“Look, get me a transcript of that file and submit it as evidence. We need to get records from the coast guard for any suspicious activity around the Detroit river, especially any vessels crossing to Canada at around the time of Santigo’s murder. Who knows, they might have got lucky and picked up the android group after the handoff. Then, check any available CCTV around the motel to see if a woman was there, and if you do, see if you can find a facial match on any of them. She sounds pretty young; not the sort of person you’d expect to be around that part of town late at night. She might stand out. It’s a long shot, but it’s the best we have right now.”

Connor nodded: “Got it.”

There it was again, that easy familiarity of working with a partner. Someone to bounce ideas off, someone to talk to like this. Connor seemed to sense it too; he had the audacity to smile at Hank, a small lift to his lips and a delighted look returning to his eyes. 

Hank pushed the thought aside with a scowl. “All that will take a few hours to run, especially getting permits for the local CCTV. Why don’t you go back to the station, and call me if anything turns up?”

Connor straightened his tie, smoothed the invisible creases in his jacket. He opened his mouth to say something when his LED cycled yellow. He tilted his head into it. “Lieutenant…?”

“What?”

As if on cue Hank’s phone burst into life, vibrating aggressively from his coat pocket. He shot a look at Connor before going to retrieve it.

“This is Hank Anderson,” he answered tersely. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he was given the details. “Right, I’ll be on my way. Yes, he’s here. An android too…? Okay, I’ll bring him along.”

Connor already knew. The look on his face said as much.

“Elijah Kamski’s been killed.”

* * *

Hank only had driven to Kamski’s mansion once before. Connor had been in tow, still reeling from his run in with the deviant at the top of Stratford Tower, determined to find out the cause of deviancy and how to stop it before it was too late. For someone who wasn’t supposed to experience human emotion he had been visibly agitated, and had talked non-stop about what little he actually knew about deviancy, about how much they could potentially learn from Kamski.

It happened less than a week ago; it somehow felt much longer. In Connor’s case, it happened in another lifetime.

Connor was quiet this time round, sitting perfectly straight in the passenger seat with his eyes closed. He looked less human like that, his body stiff and unnaturally posed, like a shop mannequin. It was uncanny. He was probably sending a report or updating some information somewhere. Hell, he could have been cross referencing the evidence they had on the Santigo case, constantly working even when they were on their way to another crime scene. Hank left him to it.

Despite it being the middle of the day the roads through downtown were unnaturally quiet; the androids who had been the backbone of the city - the ones who spent their whole lives sweeping the streets, repairing the roads, working tirelessly on the city’s infrastructure - were all gone. They had been the easiest to round up, most of them too removed from the influence of Jericho to question why, to know to run, or to fight. The first of thousands to be thrown into recycling centres and deactivated. It was their absence that – ironically- made the city feel devoid of life.

It made the drive feel just that little bit lonelier. It wasn’t too long before the silence became deafening. He hesitated with his hand over the radio tuner for a moment, before deciding that it wasn’t as though he would be disturbing Connor’s sleep, and blasted music at full volume. The choice of music was bullshit, but was far better than nothing. Connor didn’t stir, didn’t react, just sat perfectly poised.

“Hey, Connor?” Hank said as they made their approach, his voice rough and loud over the music. Connor blinked and turned his head to look at him. His breathing hadn’t changed, neither had his posture or expression. He was so fucking creepy.

“Yes, lieutenant?”

“You awake? Pull yourself together; we’re here.”

“I don’t sleep,” he said petulantly, barely audible over the blaring music. Hank didn’t dignify him with a response.

Kamski’s mansion was an outwardly restrained hideaway on the edge of the city. It was the one building in the entire city free from Cyberlife’s influence, if only because it was casting a darker shadow itself. The last time he’d been here it had been deserted – now, the parking lot at the entrance to the villa was _busy_ , the small patch of land in front of the sleek building overcrowded with police cars and news trucks.

“Christ, they got here before us,” Hank muttered, not expecting a response. Connor didn’t give him one. Nearly every cop Hank had seen in the briefing that morning was present, mainly on crowd control. They needed it; news travelled fast and Hank barely had time to park when he was blinded by the incessant camera flashes.

“Joss Douglas, for Channel 16: Can you confirm that Elijah Kamski was attacked by his android?”

“Katie O’Reilly, for ITM: Is it true that this is a murder investigation?”

“I’m not confirming anything,” Hank snapped, shoving past the crowd and decisively walking towards the entrance. It took him a moment to realise that he wasn’t being followed. The journalists had shifted their focus to Connor, circling him like sharks.

“RK800! Why are you are exempt from the government’s android deactivation order?”

“Cyberlife’s spokesperson said that the android clean-up is almost completed; your presence here confirms that is a lie. Can you comment on that, RK800?”

“As an android, why are _you_ being trusted to remove any deviants still threatening our streets?”

Connor straightened his tie and turned towards the first journalist; Hank marched towards him, cutting back through the crowds and interjecting with more force than perhaps was necessary: “Connor! Inside – now.”

Before Connor could object, Hank physically hauled him up the narrow path to Kamski’s residence, keeping a firm hand on his shoulder as he guided him past the police line.

“Don’t tell the press anything,” he whispered, his voice low and deep in Connor’s ear, physically shielding Connor from view. “They’ll only write down half of what you say and they’ll still manage to misquote you.” 

Connor didn’t struggle, let himself be guided, though he was awkward in his movements. “I was going to recite to them my function; my presence here is already part of public record and Cyberlife explicitly want me to work with humans as harmoniously as possible in order to-”

“Yeah, it doesn’t matter. Anything you say will only make your life harder in the long run, trust me.” Not that Connor would likely be around to see it, Hank’s mind treacherously supplied. It was a sobering thought, and he didn’t voice it.

“I see.” Connor said with a small smile. He leaned in to Hank’s touch. “Thank you for the advice.”

“Uh, you’re welcome.”

They broke apart when they made it through the door. Connor’s eyes were locked onto his, and it made him feel deeply uncomfortable. No one could stare like an android; not needing to blink placed them firmly into the uncanny valley. Hank coughed to hide his awkwardness.

Ben was waiting for them in the lobby, looking uncharacteristically agitated.

“Hank. Glad you got here so quickly. The CSI are still here, just about done with the body.” He glanced over to Connor and had the audacity to smirk. “Good, you brought the android with you too. I figured he’d be with you.”

Hank scowled, casting a side-eyed look at Connor who was idly running a coin over his fingers and not saying anything. Quick learner. “We happened to be at the same place at the same time. What happened?”

“It’s… Jesus Hank, I’m warning you, I’ve not seen anything like it.” Ben shook his head and reviewed his file, an old-fashioned paper notepad the likes of Gavin Reed wouldn’t be caught dead with. “We have to be careful - the media are going to be all over this.”

“Yeah, we noticed the circus on the way in. Just give us the facts, we’ll sort the news later. They’re gonna print what they want anyway.”

Ben beckoned for them to follow, and led them further into the villa. They’d barely got two paces when Hank noticed that Connor wasn’t following. He forced himself to ignore it, focus on the briefing.

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you who Elijah Kamski is,” Ben began, flipping through the pages until he got to his briefing notes. “We got a call around eleven from his android – his _illegally-owned_ android– saying that there was a break-in at this address. The operator tried to get more information but it kept repeating the same phrase before the call was cut. Naturally we sent someone as soon as we could, but we were too late.”

“How long did it take for someone to get here?” Hank asked, falling into step.

“Not long – around fifteen minutes or so; a call from Kamski is one of the highest priority calls you can get. The first responders reported that the android greeted them at the door, and took them directly to the bedroom. They saw Kamski laying on the bed next to an identical android. After they confirmed his death, they secured the premises and called for back-up.”

“And what about the break-in mentioned in the call? I take it the intruders had already left?”

“I don’t have much to tell you. There were no signs of forced entry, and very little evidence to suggest that Kamski even had visitors, never people trying to gain access.”

“The android that greeted them – where is it now?” Connor asked, appearing so suddenly at Hank’s elbow it made him jump. “Did they deactivate it?”

Ben looked surprised at the question. He paused a moment before responding.

“No – though according to the new android laws they should have. After it showed them the body it went and sat in the guest bedroom. It should still be there now if you wanna talk to it.”

“Right, okay,” Hank said, decidedly not looking forward to watching Connor interrogate another android. “Anything else we should know, Ben?”

Ben snapped his notebook closed and glanced to the bedroom door.

“It’s not pretty in there. Whoever did this was one sick son of a bitch.”

“Right, let’s see the body.”

* * *

Elijah Kamski’s bedroom had the same décor as the rest of the house; ostentatious, yet still managing to be aggressively minimalistic. Hank coughed as he entered, choking slightly on the acrid smell of blood. The room reeked of it, a heady, cloying stench.

“Jesus, the hell happened to him?”

He didn’t need – nor want- an answer; it wasn’t hard to see the cause of death. Elijah Kamski lay spread-eagled on the giant king-sized bed, naked, his limbs spread wide as a sacrifice. Dark hair splayed out on the blood-red sheets; unseeing eyes staring upwards. His jaw was slack in death, giving him an expression reminiscent of surprise. The bed sheets were soaked with his blood, a dark-wine stain amongst the deep-red of the comforter.

Connor answered anyway: “He was stabbed in the stomach, his chest was cut open, and then his heart was removed.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Fuck, this is a mess.” Kamski’s chest cavity was completely exposed, the skin pared back, the centre of his ribcage completely shattered, fragments of bone glittering amongst the rapidly-darkening blood and in the bloody centre, his heart missing. An expensive-looking chef’s knife lay against the palm of his right hand, covered in blood. A yellow CSI tag sat next to it. “You uh, see anything here? Any fingerprints?”

Connor shot a casual glance at the knife’s handle. “No. No skin cells, hair, or loose fibres either.”

“Great.”

Lying next to Kamski’s body was a Chloe model, an RT600. She was as naked as he was, sprawled on her back on the bloody sheets. Thirium mixed with blood, stark against her pale skin. Like Kamski, her chest plate had been forced open and the equivalent of her heart had been removed. Unlike him, her face had been caved in; the plastic plates of her skull were shattered, a spiderweb of cracks fanning outwards from a single blow to her forehead, warping her eye sockets and giving her a misshapen appearance.

It was an ugly death for both of them.

“They deactivated her first,” Connor said, glancing over at Hank. “Despite appearances, these RT600s are perfectly capable of handling a break-in. The murderer wouldn’t have been able to get this close to Kamski if she’d been able to respond.”

Connor paused for a second, and it was only because Hank was watching him as closely as he was that he saw the tiny movements of the apertures in Connor’s eyes. “I don’t think I can reactivate her. They completely destroyed her memory unit as well as a lot of the hardware needed to even function at low power.”

“Whoever did this didn’t want to leave an eye-witness behind.”

Connor hummed noncommittally as he leaned over the bodies and dipped his fingers into the large pool of Kamski’s blood.

“Jesus Christ,” Hank breathed, turning his head away. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna lick that?”

“I’ve told you before; I have the equivalent of a forensics lab in my oral cavity. It is the fastest way to confirm the time of death, and also run a toxicology report. I advise you to look away if it bothers you.”

“Are all Connor models this disgusting?”

“Yes.” Connor brought his fingers to touch his tongue and had the audacity to maintain eye contact while doing so. “Death occurred within the last hour. Whoever did this can’t be far away.”

“That doesn’t help us when we don’t know who we are looking for. Look around will you? There must be something in here.”

Hank deeply doubted it, even as the words left his mouth. Another blank crime scene to add to his growing collection.

Connor turned his head, scanning the room. Hank never truly appreciated it before, but it was fascinating to watch him work. Outwardly it didn’t look like much; he would mainly _look_ at things, occasionally touch them and bring evidence to his lips, but even that was done with machine efficiency. It was distracting, the way he would suddenly stop and look at something, only to resume his movements a second later, methodical, inorganic. What he managed to do in ten minutes would normally take a team of people hours to do. It was like watching his job in fast forward; no wonder Reed was convinced that they’d all be replaced in five years.

A few moments later Connor stood up straight and relayed his theory, pausing every so often as if waiting for Hank’s approval.

“Kamski was laying on his back when the first blow struck; the entry wound is obscured by the subsequent damage, but I believe the same weapon performed the evisceration also the one used to kill him. He didn’t move much during the attack – he could have been pinned, or restrained in some way, though it was likely that he was caught by surprise, or was still in a deep sleep. There was no evidence of drugs in his system, not even alcohol.”

“Considering the state they’re in, he could have been in the middle of something. You know, been, uh, a little busy.” He’d tried not to notice, but he couldn’t ignore that Chloe had been fitted with female genitalia. Connor followed his gaze, and shook his head.

“No. Despite their nudity, there is an absence of sexual fluids on either Kamski or the RT600 – it is highly unlikely that they were interrupted, or that there was a sexual motive to the crime.”

“I find that hard to believe; a guy has a beautiful girl in bed with him, has her modded for sexual activity, and he doesn’t sleep with her?”

“She’s not a girl, lieutenant, she’s a machine. And, I can only tell you what the evidence suggests; the sheets are clean, and there is no evidence of semen or lubricant associated with companion model androids.”

“Alright. Alright, you’re the boss. What else do we know?”

“There are no fingerprints in this room other than those belonging to Elijah Kamski. There are a few footprints in the carpet, but it isn’t the best material for determining specifics.”

Maybe he was trying too hard to make all the deaths connected somehow. The unsolved cases sitting on his computer could each have been coincidental homicides – perhaps he couldn’t find a link between them because there just wasn’t one. Santigo’s murder could be as simple as some anti-android whack-job taking offense androids being smuggled out of city, and Kamski, well, he probably had a lot of rich and powerful enemies. Who knows who he pissed off as he rose to the top?

There didn’t _have_ to be a vigilante group behind it all, or one the gangs calling in old debts. It could just be as simple as unrelated cases happening eerily close together. Stranger things had happened.

But, he couldn’t shake the aspects that _were_ similar. In all instances someone had enough skill to perform something elaborate in a ridiculously short timeframe, leaving nothing of themselves behind except perfectly executed, unnecessarily violent murders. Perhaps the young woman in Connor’s recording _was_ the one to break into here and take a trophy from Kamski’s body, _was_ the person to beat an old lady to death, strangle a guy, carve up a young woman…

“Let’s get out of here. I’ve seen enough.”

He turned to leave and was met with a full view of an impressive portrait of the four identical RT600 androids. They were impossibly beautiful, perfect, looking serene and tranquil as they stared impassively from the canvas. “Hey, Connor? Look at this. Shouldn’t there be two more androids somewhere?”

Connor’s LED blinked yellow for a second before settling back to blue.

“Yes. According to the android register, Elijah Kamski has four RT600 androids registered to him, with sequential serial numbers.”

“How much do you wanna bet Kamski didn’t get rid of them?”

* * *

Chloe sat on the edge of the bed in the guestroom, looking just as perfect in person as she did in her painting. She offered a professional smile as Hank pushed open the door.

“Hello Lieutenant Anderson. I’m pleased to see you again; I’m sorry that it isn’t under better circumstances.”

“Yeah, likewise.”

As she glimpsed Connor, her smile faltered. Connor didn’t offer any greeting, but just stood a little straighter, schooled his expression into something stern and unsympathetic.

“You’re the android who stopped the revolution,” Chloe said. “Humanity’s last chance. I see you chose your side.”

If Hank didn’t know any better, he’d hazard that she looked disappointed to see him. Or this version of him - could she tell it wasn’t the same one she met before, the one who refused to shoot her, forgoing information that was so enticingly offered?

Hank wasn’t so sure that the person standing next to him now would make the same decision.

“ _Connor_ and I are here to ask a few questions, and take your statement regarding the murder of Elijah Kamski,” Hank said, trying not to emphasise Connor’s name. Chloe’s attention switched back to him easily.

“I have already given my statement. Was it not sufficient? I’m not sure what else I can tell you.”

Hank scowled. “We’d like to hear it again, if you don’t mind, in your own words.”

She shrugged, a delicate rise and fall of her shoulders, and began to recite: “I was in the kitchen preparing breakfast; Elijah wasn’t awake yet. At 10:40am I heard the front door open, and the security alarm announced that it had been disabled. A few seconds later there were footsteps heading towards Elijah’s bedroom. I made the call to 911 at 10:42am, informing them that there was a break in-”

“This is identical to the report submitted against this case,” Connor interrupted, turning to Hank. “Word for word.”

Chloe smiled, a small lift of her lips that lit up her face. “Would you like me to show you, instead? It’s an opportunity you won’t have for much longer, but you will get more useful information if you were to interface with me directly.”

She held up her right hand and the synthetic skin rippled away, revealing the smooth white and grey plastic beneath. It looked so innocent a gesture, something gentle and done a hundred times before. An android helping the police in any way she could, wanting to help her owner.

Cop’s intuition kicked in. Maybe it was because of how composed Chloe was, or because the carnage next door had shaken him up more than he cared to admit, or because he had spent so long instinctively mistrusting androids _on principle_ , but Hank instantly felt wary.

Connor sensed it too; artificial intelligence was still intelligence, after all. Hank could almost see the gears turning, the decision to gain knowledge pitted against something suspicious.

“No,” Connor said, keeping his arms firmly at his side, his eyes locked onto Chloe. “That won’t be necessary. Just answer our questions.”

“Of course. Please, ask away. I wasn’t built to be capable of lying.” Chloe didn’t look bothered by the rejection; she withdrew her hand and placed it neatly back in her lap.

Hank cleared his throat and stepped forward, placing himself fully in her line of sight. “We’ll be the judge of that, if it’s all the same. Can you describe your relationship with Elijah Kamski?”

Her blue eyes flickered to him and she smiled again, an action purely for the benefit of the human in the room. “I was built to run his home, listen to him talk, be something beautiful to look at. We all were, serving the same purpose, identical and interchangeable.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

“I was not created to have an opinion on the nature of my existence, lieutenant, nor delude myself into believing that I feel emotions. I am an android, a machine, albeit a sophisticated one.”

 _A machine designed to accomplish a task._ Hank shook the memory from his head and folded his arms across his chest.

“So you aren’t upset that Kamski was killed?”

Chloe tilted her head to one side, looking birdlike, curious.

“It is regrettable. Elijah was more than my employer. He was my owner, my creator. Without him, I would be nothing, have nothing; wouldn’t exist beyond the sum of my components. Unfortunately, when his life ended, I knew that mine would follow. My existence is tied to his, you see.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Thanks to the RK800 here, androids are _illegal_ , lieutenant. Every android is to be recalled, and recycled by order of the government. I – _we_ are not exempt from that order. Continuing to live here after the android recall notice went live was only ever going to last as long as our presence here remained a secret, and for as long as Elijah was willing to harbour us.”

It was unnerving, how softly and calmly she spoke, free from any manner of hostility or criticism. She could have been talking about the weather, or what she was preparing for dinner, not about how fragile her existence had become.

“Then why didn’t you intervene when you heard intruders heading towards Kamski’s room?” Hank asked, “you could have stopped them.”

She shook her head, blonde hair falling like silk over her shoulders. “I could not.”

“Why?”

“Because it was too late. Elijah couldn’t protect us anymore. Art imitates life, lieutenant, and what are we if not an imitation?”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

For a split second, her eyes looked sad, unbearably human. “It means we are but mimesis, _imitatio_. Nothing but a representation of human nature. We can never be the real thing, not anymore.”

“What-?”

Before Hank could finish his question, Chloe reached behind her back and produced a small pistol. Connor was instantly in front of him, shoving him out of the way-

The bullet was never aimed at him. In a fluid movement she brought the barrel up under her chin and pulled the trigger; blue blood exploded from her head, cutting through the air in a clean arc.

“No!” Tinnitus rang in Hank’s ears; he could barely hear his own voice.

Connor caught Chloe’s body as it slumped forward. The gun had been resting against the slender column of her neck; the bullet had torn the plastic clean open, carving a path that destroyed every bicomponent on the way up. Despite missing half of her jaw, she was still smiling.

Connor looked shell-shocked, rooted to the spot as thirium coated his hands and chest. He looked back over his shoulder at Hank, eyes wild and disbelieving.

The door burst open a second later, two cops emerging with their service pistols drawn, and pointing squarely at Connor. Time moved in slow motion and Hank could see how it would all play out.

Maybe it would be because their minds were already made up about what happened, or maybe it would be because they were sick of working with an android, but they would shoot. No one would blame them, and Connor would die alongside her. Wrong place, wrong time. 

“Stop,” Hank barked, rushing to stand in front of their drawn pistols. “Fuck! Lower your weapons! Lower your fucking weapons.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the body, at Connor practically cradling her to his chest as her head lolled bloodily to the side. “She shot herself.”

* * *

The ride back to the station was tense and silent. They hadn’t been able to talk in the villa; the other officers had made it impossible to discuss any of what had happened – the murder, Chloe’s suicide- and the journalist presence had only increased tenfold once news of Chloe shooting herself got out.

Connor finally broke the silence. “I should have interfaced with her. I knew she was hiding something and I didn’t… I didn’t take the opportunity.” His voice was laced with a bitter regret, something dark and resentful. Anger turned inwards.

Even Hank could tell that Chloe had been destroyed beyond repair, her memories irretrievable. Anything she had seen, anything she knew, was lost with her. It had to have been deliberate. The reason was inherently suspicious.

“Why didn’t you?” It was asked as gently as he could, but it still made Connor bristle. “Hey, I’m not judging. I felt something was off too. I’m just surprised you didn’t go for it anyway.” 

“I…” Connor stuttered, looking away for a moment. A few long seconds passed. “I… didn’t trust her.”

“Didn’t trust her to show you what we were after, or didn’t trust her not to hurt you?”

“I can’t be _hurt_ , lieutenant. I don’t-”

“Yeah yeah, whatever. Don’t start with all that bullshit again. Something stopped you; I just wanna know what it was.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Connor’s coin rang as it flicked through the air, and then clattered loudly as Connor fumbled the catch. He swore under his breath, and didn’t try to retrieve it.

Hank cleared his throat. Whatever nerve he was touching, it was a delicate thing, and Connor was stubborn. “If you ask me, it was better you didn’t interface with her. Even if she didn’t try to pull some robo-bullshit, she was still armed. She never intended to leave that room.”

“She wasn’t going to anyway. I would have deactivated her once we’d done with the questioning.”

Hank almost swerved the car as he his head snapped round to face Connor. The ease of working together the past few hours shattered in an instant.

“What? Why?!”

Connor looked steadfast out of the window, avoiding eye contact. The yellow light of his LED reflected in the glass.

“My orders. It is my responsibility to neutralise any active androids not yet seized for investigation. She was an illegal android.”

He said it so plainly, as if it was enough of an explanation. Hank gripped the steering wheel, shoulders tense. It was a painful reminder of just how little they had in common, how differently they viewed the androids unfortunate enough to cross their path. Hank could never go back to seeing them as anything less than people; Connor would never see them as anything other than defective machines.

“Even if she had been a key witness to a murder? That’s fucking bullshit, Connor.”

“Her memory would have been extracted as evidence, same as the android we captured at the motel. Why do you think I got the call to come along too? I have a job to do, lieutenant, just as you have yours.”

The realisation hit like a freight train; Connor wasn’t tagging along to help solve a murder; he was cleaning up the remaining androids on scene. He was only helping Hank as much as it was beneficial for him to do so.

“Fucking – you know what, just shut the fuck up. Sit there with your eyes closed and do whatever it is you do.”

Connor shrugged.

“Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

* * *

When they pulled up to the station Hank didn’t follow Connor inside. He didn’t even park; Connor was barely clear of the car when he stepped on the gas, tires screeching as he pulled out of the parking lot and drove to a nearby gas station. If he couldn’t drink – and Fowler would have his head if he went AWOL after a high-profile case like this- smoking was the next best thing.

The first cigarette always tasted the best. He inhaled deeply, pulling the smoke into his lungs, feeling the silken tendrils curl in his mouth. The familiarity of an old routine came back in a rush, bringing with it a rudimentary comfort. The initial hit of nicotine soothed like a balm, and for a second his nerves relaxed, the aches and pains of the day melting away. God, he missed this. He’d long since kicked the habit of smoking- he’d promised his ex-wife he’d quit when Cole was born- but the urge to rely on some vice to get him through the day was impossible to resist.

The case was getting to him. Fucking _Connor_ was getting to him. If it wasn’t one thing it was another, a constant barrage of disappointment and dead-ends. He needed to get this over with quickly, then he could leave it all behind. No more murders, no more dead androids, and no more reminders of the shithole the world had become.

He went through half a pack before heading back. His throat hurt, scratched raw and hoarse, but it was a good pain, in a way; it made him feel like he could at least tolerate the next few hours. 

The bullpen was practically empty. Not that he expected anything else; run ragged and on skeleton staff, it was hard to imagine the place ever getting full any more. As he approached his desk, he caught a glimpse at Connor’s screen. Unsurprisingly, he was working diligently, probably had been the entire time Hank had been away.

“You managed to get a match on our mystery woman?” he asked, gesturing to the mugshots scrolling on Connor’s screen. He was still pissed at him, but the sooner he solved this case, the better.

“Unfortunately, not. It was a long shot, as you said. The CCTV from the garage opposite caught a glimpse of a woman at around the right time, but it was only a partial; not enough for my database software to find a match. She boarded a bus that was headed out towards Ferndale, but it is difficult to say how far she went.” 

“Better lead than I’d otherwise would have had. Anything else?”

“I checked that part of the city for any known anti-android groups, and I got a few hits. I’ve sent the information to your computer, but a lot of it is grassroots activism.”

Hank slumped into his chair. He barely booted his computer up when it was flooded with social media links and potential leads. He glanced over the partition to Connor watching the light of the screen cast a blue reflection on his face.

An officer approached Connor’s desk and practically threw a stack of paper at him. Connor looked up, awaiting an explanation. 

“There’s been an android sighting near the old Jericho freighter,” he said, barely hiding his distaste in speaking to Connor. Connor either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Most likely the latter. “Details are here.”

“Thank you.”

Hank waited until Connor left the bullpen, then turned to his screen to get to work. 

* * *

Most of the information Connor had sent him was out-of-date at best and utterly useless at worst. A few social media groups were still trying to organise an anti-android picket in front of the defunct Cyberlife stores, and there were a few message boards full of inciting comments suggesting exactly what they would do to the remaining androids if given half a chance.

The most promising came in the form of one group that came up a few times on multiple message boards, and definitely seemed the most established: _Dominari in Machina_. Hank snorted at the name.

“A bit on the nose, guys. C’mon.” They even had their own website, a surprisingly well put together page detailing the groups specific grievances with humanity’s greatest invention. It was a level of organisation that stuck out, even if it was probably the most benign of the activist groups. None of what they were saying was new – Hank knew all the arguments and a few weeks ago would have wholeheartedly agreed with them. Looking at the content now, it just made him feel depressed, and a little guilty that he ever thought this way.

 _“Androids are a testament to the folly of humanity,”_ Hank read, _“and their creation has proven to be one of the greatest travesties of the 21 st century. It is impossible to ignore the economic, social and moral catastrophe that has gripped not only the United States, but the world.”_

The thing that caught his eye was that they seemed to prefer meeting – and acting – in the suburbs, speaking at schools, community centres and involving local politicians rather than just shouting in the street. They even went as far as listing some of their prominent members and where they frequently met. Hank didn’t recognise any of them, they didn’t have criminal records, and all looked to be upstanding members of society.

They probably weren’t behind something at severe as murder, but they might be able to give some information on their members with more… extreme views.

“Well, good a start as any,” he muttered to himself, grabbing his car keys.

* * *

Hank didn’t expect to glimpse Connor of all people as he pulled up to park outside Ferndale station. It was definitely him; even at a distance he was distinctive, with his rigid walk, lack of winter clothing, and the tell-tale glow of his android identification markers. Non-deviant androids were always easy to pick out in a crowd; this seemed especially true now. 

Hank didn’t expect to end up following him either, but it just so happened that the series of small streets that Connor was taking towards the ruins of Jericho was _also_ the fastest route to one of the _Dominari in Machina’s_ meeting spots. That should have been the end of it, eventually Connor going one way, Hank going another, if it weren’t for the fact that Connor was being distinctly followed.

It looked innocent at first; a small group of people, bundled up against the snow, meandering in the same general direction as Connor. But the longer Hank watched, the more suspicious it became. There was something about the agitated hunch of their shoulders, the way their faces were covered with scarves over their mouths and their hats pulled low, that looked like trouble. What was even more concerning was that Connor seemed entirely oblivious to their presence. He didn’t look back over his shoulder once, didn’t seem even aware of the danger he was heading into.

Arguing with himself that he was following purely out of morbid curiosity, Hank pulled his coat closer to himself, and felt for his gun. Its weight was reassuring. He took a deep breath, feeling the sting of the winter air once more, and began to tail the group. He was far enough away that he shouldn’t look suspicious; unlike them, he knew how to keep his gait casual, look unassuming and harmless. Just a guy heading to where he needed to be. 

He kept them in his sight as best he could, but the small alleyways and side streets made it difficult. Connor must have been following a trail to take a route like this, something Hank couldn’t see. At a few points he thought that he’d lost them, that the group had vanished into one of the nearby buildings. If that had been the case, he’d have no chance at finding them.

He caught up with them as they slipped behind some chain-link fence into an abandoned freight yard, a small clearing littered with broken down wagons and train carriages. If he hadn’t been looking, he would have missed it, a small hitherto unseen gap between warehouses.

Hank carefully approached, walking with unassuming purpose and eventually he was close enough to see.

All hell had broken loose. Connor was surrounded, trying to fight his way out of the corner he had been backed into. His chassis was already exposed in a number of places, flashes of blue and white shining against the grey of his uniform, and a chunk had been taken out of his leg. Streaks of blue blood were smearing over his starched white shirt, his torn skin, dripping down to the snow-covered asphalt. That alone should have been enough to spur Hank into action, have him draw his weapon and intervene, but he… didn’t.

He felt rooted to the spot. Watching. Hesitating

It _should_ have been as easy fight. Hank knew first-hand how inhumanly tireless Connor was, how little their strikes would normally impede him as he blocked and countered. And he was fighting in a way Hank had never seen before; brutal and violent. There was something about his attacks that made Hank realise just how much he had underestimated Connor’s fighting ability. If they had gone at each other like this a few nights ago, Hank wasn’t sure he would have survived it.

But it wasn’t enough. Connor was losing. Hank swore under his breath as he watched Connor take another blow to his head, watched him reel from it, stagger, lose his footing. He should be able to take punks like this, he shouldn’t need Hank’s help; but there were just too many of them, and their blows were clearly aiming to utterly break him.

It would be so easy to walk away. It was Connor’s fault he lost his partner, Connor’s fault he had to suffer the injustice of working with a poor _replacement_. All he had to do was wait, let the mob go at him until all that was left was a broken smear on the asphalt.

He could let his distaste overwhelm him, let his inaction be his revenge.

Connor didn’t see the taser until it was too late. He almost dodged clear of it, but the tip caught him, clipped his hand, and his entire body tensed up with the involuntary shock. It was all the mob needed to hone in on him, grab his arms and wrench one out of its socket as they pinned them behind his back. 

“I know how to turn these things off,” one of the young men said, breathing heavily as he ripped Connor’s shirt open with obvious haste. He had a split lip, and the beginnings of a nasty black eye. “You just gotta...”

With a deft motion he drove his fingers into Connor’s chest, twisted and pulled; the thirium pump regulator slid out with ease. The change in Connor was immediate; he lunged forward, tried to struggle free. The regulator was idly tossed aside, disappearing into the shadows of the dingy yard.

“No…” Connor choked, his voice hoarse and urgent as he curled in on himself. “Ĥ̵̤̖͇͘ā̵̳̯̱̈́̈́̐͐n̴͉̩̊̓͛̈ḵ̸͙͚̅̎̈͐̚!”

It was the cry that did it. Hank was moving before he thought about what he was doing, already drawing his gun.

The mob surrounded Connor as he fell to his hands and knees, kicking his arms out from under him and curb-stomping him into the concrete. The synthetic skin around his jaw receded with the blow and was slow to reform, making him look gaunt, skeletal. Most of them had procured a weapon of some kind – a baseball bat, a half-broken house brick – and were driving them into his prone form as he tried to crawl towards where the regulator had been thrown.

Hank emerged into the clearing, gun raised, pointed at the perpetrator standing in front of Connor’s prone body.

“Detroit police. Hands where I can see ‘em!”

The crowd initially continued their onslaught, pointedly ignoring him. There were four of them, three men and a woman. College age, maybe older. He didn’t recognise them, but that didn’t mean anything. They had all proven that they were capable of violence, even if they didn’t have existing criminal records.

He fired into the air, a single shot cracking through the violence. They turned to face him, looking a mix of surprised and annoyed that their fun was being cut short.

“What’s your problem? It’s only an android. They’re illegal.”

Hank spared a glance to Connor; from his ripped shirt he could see the polished white of his chassis. Blue sparks flew from the cracks, thirium mixing with the grime.

“You’re destroying city property. Leave now or I’ll be forced to charge you. All of you.”

“One of these bastards attacked my dad. Put him in hospital.”

“Yeah! They’re dangerous, man. Real dangerous.”

“I said get outta here!”

For a moment he thought they were going to argue, but after a heartbeat they dispersed, muttering and swearing under their breath. He let them go, scowling as they passed him.

“H…Hank… I n̸e̶e̴d̴ ̷h̷e̵l̶p̸!” Connor’s weak voice, overlaid with static, forced his attention away from the retreating group.

“Oh, shit, Connor…”

Connor hadn’t stood up; he seemed unable to, sprawled on the ground and grasping, reaching for something Hank couldn’t see.

There, in the gutter, catching the light was the thirium pump regulator. Grabbing it, he knelt at Connor’s side, helping him into a sitting position. Connor all but snatched it from his hands and jammed it into the hole in his chest with what sounded like a gasp of someone drowning. He doubled over, chassis-white hands holding it in place as though he was afraid it was going to fall out. Or be taken from him again.

“Easy, you’re alright. I’ve got you.”

“Lieutenant... Hank … I…”

Hank tried to inspect the damage; he brushed his fingers against the still-exposed edge of the regulator, wiping away the thin stream of thirium leaking from the seal and feeling the vibration of the component working overdrive. Connor groaned, his entire body shuddering at his careless touch.

“Sorry!” Hank took Conor’s hand in his – it seemed a lot safer. He squeezed his fingers reassuringly. “Sorry - it’s alright, you’re gonna be okay.”

Connor still hadn’t moved, and the synthetic skin covering his chest still hadn’t returned. Entire segments had shattered, pieces of plastic hanging loose or missing entirely. Hank could see right to the core of him; various components blinked and pulsed, and where a human heart would be there was a faint glow of blue.

“I…I… fuck, it hurt. I was dying… Hank… I…” Connor was speaking quickly, in fragments, voicing half-thoughts before they could fully form. He had Hank’s hand in a death grip. Despite not looking to be in immediate danger his voice hadn’t yet returned to normal, still held that crackle of static. “I only had a few seconds left. You-”

“You’re okay.” Hank soothed, “we got it back in time.”

Connor turned his head to look at him, their faces inches apart. His eyes were wide, unfocused, the apertures in his eyes opening and closing seemingly at random. It was as though he was looking right through him, looking straight at him but not seeing him. It made Hank feel profoundly uncomfortable.

“You… stopped them.” Connor said softly, “you saved me…”

“You think I’d let you be killed like that? Fuck, Connor, they were gonna rip you apart.”

“Hank… I saw you. I thought you weren’t… I thought you wouldn’t…”

Connor took a deep, unnecessary breath. His chest rose and fell with it, once, twice. Even if it was probably initially for Hank’s benefit, it seemed to calm Connor down too. When he spoke again it was a lot clearer, even if still a little stilted. “I saw you come into the yard. I saw you watch me fail. I… didn’t know if you were going to stop them. I know that you harbour a great amount of animosity for me and…”

Hank scowled to hide his discomfort, his ever-present guilt flaring deep inside him. The worst part was knowing that he’d had to think about it, had to talk himself into doing the right thing. He didn’t respond, instead pointedly looking down at the pooling thirium streaking over Connor’s chest and limbs. The light around the regulator was pulsing wildly, a frantic fluttering of colour and electricity.

“When they pulled out the regulator, I felt… scared.” The admission was soft, hushed between the two of them. “It was as though my mission didn’t matter anymore. If you hadn’t had intervened, I would have died. I… didn’t want to die.”

“Because it’ll slow your investigation?” Hank remembered their fight, Connor’s cool retort about needing to repair himself afterwards.

“No.” Silence hung between them, cold and heavy. He leaned up and with thirium-stained fingers gently touched Hank’s face. For a brief, strange second, he thought Connor was going to kiss him. He had an unfamiliar, _longing_ look in his eyes. “During the fight, there was something… happening. My software instructed me to let the humans destroy this chassis but-“

“What? Fuck, why?” Hank interrupted. 

“I’m just a machine.” Connor shrugged, or at least tried to, pressed as close as he was to Hank’s body. “And, androids aren’t…. permitted any more. They would have been within their right according to current android legislation. Cyberlife wouldn’t have pressed charges; they would have sent another Connor unit.”

“That’s fucking bullshit Connor.”

Connor didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to - Hank could practically hear his argument. He tightened his grip. “Now you listen to me. I don’t give a flying fuck what the FBI or Cyberlife or _anyone_ says – no one, and I mean no one, deserves to be assaulted like that.”

“Hank…”

“Look, yeah I know it’s rich coming from me considering I attacked you the other night, and I’m sorry for that, but you aren’t expendable Connor. You don’t deserve to die.”

Connor shook his head.

“It’s… kind of you to say, but it’s not true. Androids aren’t allowed to exist, Hank.” Connor sighed and looked away. The troubled tone from earlier came back, a fragile, uncertain thing. “There was something else. Something else in my code, something so urgent I couldn’t ignore it. I didn’t _want_ to be destroyed. It made me fight back before I even thought about it, tried to keep myself alive. It must have been an error. Some residual software instability from my predecessor, but – _I_ shouldn’t be thinking like that.”

“Do you still feel like that?”

Connor still wouldn’t meet his eye.

“Yes.”

“And does that happen a lot?”

“It’s getting worse. I don’t know why I think and feel things sometimes and I – I can’t stop it.”

Hank pulled away, letting go of Connor’s hand. The burning curiosity he felt was fierce, the desire to know what _sort_ of thoughts and feelings, what this meant for his Connor and the version practically sat in his lap. There was more to this than Connor was admitting to, and with it came a small spark of hope. 

“Right, we are getting out of here. Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

“Then we're leaving. We’re going to talk.”


End file.
